


Possible 'verse Timestamps - Vol. 2

by terriblelifechoices



Series: Possible [4]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Childbirth, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Friendship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Kid Fic, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-06-11 00:59:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 27,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15303933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terriblelifechoices/pseuds/terriblelifechoices
Summary: I had a lot of fun writing comment fic for people in the last round of Timestamps.Further timestamps from the Possible 'verse: past, present and future, mostly written as comment fic on AO3.  (There's a bit from tumblr, too.)  Tags will be updated as chapters go up.  This is mostly shameless kid fic, though.





	1. St. Brigid's Hospital, April 1906

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the incredible [female_overlord_3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/female_overlord_3/pseuds/female_overlord_3)
> 
> Graves and Seraphina meet the Bluebird and Nurse Sally for the first time.
> 
> Warnings for Percival being fairly seriously injured, and also kind of a dumbass. That last part probably doesn't need a warning, but there you go.

_St. Brigid’s Hospital, April 1906_

 

It wasn’t uncommon for panicked, injured Aurors to Apparate directly into the Emergency Room at St. Brigid’s. It was what they were trained to do.

It was a _little_ unusual for one to pretend that he was absolutely fine, though.

“I can wait,” the Graves boy said, hands pressed to the bloody wound in his side. His face was pale with blood loss, and it only served to highlight how very much like his father he looked.

Sally couldn’t remember his name. Something out of a Merlinian story; Geraint’s wife had always liked those. Geraint used to joke that it was half the reason she’d married him.

“You cannot,” Sally told him. “You do understand the concept of triage, I hope?”

“Er,” said the Graves boy. “Yes?”

Sally made a mental note to explain it to him again later. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” she said.

The Graves boy moved his hands. He’d had the presence of mind to put his injury under a stasis spell, which was why he wasn’t bleeding all over everything, but keeping it on for too long would do as much damage as a No-Maj tourniquet.

Sally had seen worse in her years as a nurse, but still. “What the _hell_ happened to the rest of your rib?” she demanded. The entire left side of his body looked like someone had clawed him open, reached in, and snapped part of a rib off. She had no idea how he was still upright and talking, much less trying to convince her he didn’t need medical care. Sally would have been screaming, were she in his place.

“I’m not sure,” the Graves boy admitted, looking worried for the first time.

“Morrigan wept,” muttered Sally. She snagged a passing orderly. “Find me Healer Aelinor Bluebird _right now._ I don’t care what she’s doing, she needs to get down here an hour ago, you hear me?”

 _“The Bluebird?”_ The Graves boy was still young enough that his voice went up an octave at the thought of meeting MACUSA’s most powerful Healer.

“She has a fiancé, and you’re in no condition for anything amorous,” Sally told him.

“I wouldn’t,” the Graves boy said feebly. “It’s just. _Aelinor Bluebird.”_

“She’s just a witch, kid,” said Sally.

“I’m going to remember you said that,” Aelinor warned her, having come up from behind Sally on sneaky-quiet feet. “What are we -- Morrigan save me, what the hell happened to you?”

The Graves boy appeared to be considering several lies. At Aelinor’s basilisk glare, he decided to go with the least egregious one. “I lost a fight?”

 

*

 

The Graves boy turned out to be Percival Graves, junior Auror and current Graves in MACUSA. Sally found him a little alarming; there was no reason for a boy of just nineteen to act like a senior Auror twice his age. He hadn’t tried to fight Aelinor at all as she’d healed him despite how badly it had to hurt, lied impressively about his pain levels, and had tried to escape once already this morning.

Percival’s second attempt at escape had been thwarted by a mixed-race girl Sally vaguely recognized as one of Judge Garland’s handpicked up-and-comers. Her dress had come off the rack from Ariadne’s, but if she was anything like the rest of Judge Garland’s chosen few, Sally didn’t doubt she’d be wearing Ariadne originals in no time at all. As it was, she probably could have passed the one she was wearing off as an Ariadne original; it was a shade of purple so deep it looked almost black, and someone had embroidered _Integritas, Unitas, Virtus, Magia_ alongside protective runes on her cuffs and the hem of her skirts.

“Percival Alexander _fucking_ Graves, where the hell do you think you’re going?” the girl thundered, managing to convey absolute fury with every line of her slender body. She reminded Sally of a serpent preparing to strike.

Percival, in contrast, looked like a cat who was preparing to flee before someone aimed an _aguamenti_ at it. “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to lie, would it?” he asked, with a credible attempt at a charming grin.

“I will hex your balls off and make you eat them,” the girl snarled. “Were you trying to escape against the Healer’s advice?”

“Er,” said Percival.

“Yes,” said Sally.

Percival glowered at her.

“You fucking idiot,” the girl spluttered, dragging Percival back into his hospital bed. “Keep your ass in that bed or so help me, I will make you regret it.” She arranged his pillows so that he could lie back against them comfortably and tucked the blankets around him with tender hands, careful not to cause him further hurt. Whoever she was, she cared deeply for Percival Graves.

She wasn’t his sister. Sally had met Dindrane Graves. A lover, maybe?

“Sorry, Seraphina,” Percival said.

“You should be,” Seraphina said, and slapped him.

“Ow,” Percival complained.

Sally had the girl halfway across the room and pinned against the wall before she was aware of casting the spells. “I’ll thank you to leave my patient alone, Miss …?”

“Picquery,” the girl provided obligingly. “Seraphina Picquery.”

“Let her go,” Percival snarled, flailing his way out of bed again.

Sally felt the tip of his wand touch the back of her neck in clear threat.

“Picquery,” Sally repeated. She’d heard that name somewhere recently.

“I’m his next-of-kin,” explained Seraphina.

“You’re not his sister,” said Sally, frowning.

“She’s as good as,” Percival retorted. “And Dindrane wouldn’t stop at slapping me. She’d _cry_ and then she’d murder me for making her cry. Seraphina’s a better choice for next-of-kin.” He paused, and added, “If you make me tell you to let her go again, you’re going to regret it.”

To his credit, he sounded somewhat apologetic about that.

Sally let Seraphina go.

Seraphina pushed past her and grabbed Percival by one ear. “What did I tell you about keeping your ass in that bed?” she demanded, shoving Percival over until she could climb into bed with him.

 _“Seraphina,”_ Percival whined.

 _“Percival,”_ she retorted.

“Ugh,” he said. _“Fine.”_

“I’ll make sure he rests,” Seraphina assured Sally, tucking herself into his side with the ease of long familiarity.

Not lovers, then, Sally thought. Not now or ever. They were more like siblings.

“Alright, then,” Sally said. “I’ll be by to check on you both in a few hours.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Seraphina said, exquisitely polite now that she’d gotten what she she wanted.

Those two, Sally thought, were going to be trouble. She grinned to herself. MACUSA wasn’t going to know what hit it.


	2. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, March 1934

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The most splendid [fantastik_obskurials](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantastik_obskurials/works) wanted to know what Lance had done to get himself suspended in Chapter 3 of the first volume of Timestamps. I had a headcanon for that, and I was delighted to get the chance to write it out.
> 
> Takes just before [this timestamp.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/160758960661/the-fantastic-dailandin-mentioned-that-credence)
> 
>  
> 
> [Cross posted to tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/175596633586/the-delightful-fantastikobskurials-wanted-to-know)
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for: teenage boys being dumb, inappropriate boners and under-the-influence make-outs.

_Ilvermorny, Massachusetts March 1934_

 

“Are you sure you translated those hieroglyphs correctly?” Lance asked.

Archie gave him a scornful look over his glasses. “Yes,” he said, waspish. Archie Covington was the smartest person in their year, and he _hated_ having his intelligence questioned. He wasn’t exactly Lance’s best friend, but they’d bonded over their equally ridiculous names and families when they were tiny obnoxious first years, and they’d been academic rivals and lab partners ever since. It probably worked out to about the same thing.

Which meant that Lance knew for a _fact_ that Archie was only eighty-five percent sure he’d translated the hieroglyphs properly, but asking him again would just make him dig in his heels.

Horned Serpents were _really_ predictable sometimes. Although it helped that Lance had grown up with Arthur, who was like Archie, but magnified by an order of ten, because the Graves’ believed in going big or going home.

“Right,” said Lance, gnawing on his lip. They were in the library, and if anything went wrong -- not that anything _would,_ because it wasn’t like they were working with anything _dangerous_ \-- there were a lot of other people at risk.

 _Tío_ Percival had a lot of things to say about people who risked innocent lives. None of it was flattering.

Lance drew his wand and surreptitiously cast a series of containment wards. The wards would have been stronger if Gwen or Arthur had been with him; Lance had learned to cast in tandem with his siblings as well as alone, just in case.

Just in case of _what,_ Lance still wasn’t sure. His family was a little weird. But most of the Twelve families were.

Archie looked up, offended. “Did you just cast containment wards?”

“Shut up, it’s good practice,” Lance retorted. “Don’t make me give you the lab safety speech.” Lance’s Papá had an _epic_ Lab Safety Speech. Lance had been able to parrot it back verbatim by the time he was six.

“Ugh, fine,” said Archie, returning his attention to the spell map.

Lance flopped into the chair beside him.

Cursebreakers and magical researchers used spell maps to physically view the components of a spell. The notations varied by country and occasionally spellmaker, which was what made them fun, in Lance’s opinion. It was like working with puzzles, only with higher stakes.

Lance had always been good at puzzles. And he was a Graves-Flores. High stakes were in his blood.

Archie had done the spell map on Professor Bryant’s blue faience _shabti_ figure. It spun in lazy circles around the little clay figurine, highlighting various hieroglyphs. The curse itself was fairly basic -- a ward against grave robbers -- and whoever had removed the _shabti_ figure had somehow avoided triggering the curse. It had languished in Professor Bryant’s office until Lance had liberated it. Purely in the spirit of scientific inquiry, of course. He and Archie had never tried breaking an Egyptian curse before. They wanted to see if they could do it.

“There,” Lance said, pointing. “That’s the trigger.”

“I see that,” Archie grumbled. “I’m trying to avoid setting it off.”

“That’d be good,” agreed Lance. Egyptian spells were tricky, especially the old ones. The ancient Egyptian spells were chanted; the spells themselves laid out as prayers to specific gods. It was fascinating, the way the elements of the spell were layered on top of one another to form a cohesive whole. Lance suspected that was what gave the ancient Egyptian spells such enduring power; they were clearly built to last.

“Right,” said Archie. “I think I’ve got it.”

“That fast?” asked Lance, impressed. He wanted a couple more days with the thing, himself.

“I was thinking layered catch-and-release,” Archie said, flicking his wand at the _shabti._ “Stabilize the layers as I go along, and then bleed any residual power off into a containment field.”

That made sense. It was pretty basic as cursebreaking went, though. Lance thought the spells on the _shabti_ might be trickier than that.

“I don’t know,” he said, because _Tío_ Percival said you should always trust your gut. “Oh, fuck, watch --”

Archie’s countercurse hit the trigger, and the _shabti_ glowed bright blue before the figurine exploded in a fine cloud of dust.

Lance had a second to think that his wards had held and that everything would be fine -- minus detention for destroying a professor’s own personal property -- and then the curse exploded outwards, rolling over his containment wards like they weren’t even there.

Heat coiled in his gut, bright as the sun and just as implacable. He had the sudden urge to go find Sarah Wrede and kiss her senseless, and maybe strip out of his clothes while he did so.

Lance tugged at his collar, wishing he could remove his shirt. Professor Haviland took a dim view of shirtless hooligans in his library, though, so he didn’t dare.

“I don’t feel so good,” Archie admitted, flushed red from his head to his toes.

“Yeah, I think we need to go to the infirmary,” Lance said. He glanced down at his lap, squirming a little. “Maybe in a minute.”

He was sixteen. Inappropriate erections were a fact of life, but having one _in the library_ was not something he was going to live down any time soon.

“I think,” Archie said, swallowing hard. “I think I mistranslated one of the hieroglyphs.”

“You think?” Lance asked, aiming for sarcastic and probably sounding more desperately horny than anything else. In Sarah’s absence, Archie was starting to look pretty good, and Lance didn’t even _like_ guys that way.

“I thought it meant dreams, like nightmares?” Archie said, his voice going a bit high at the end. “It’s pretty common as a ward against graverobbers; get them all caught up in waking nightmares --”

“Archie! Focus! Academic reasoning later,” Lance hissed, because he was pretty sure he was not the _only_ one sporting an inappropriate erection.

“I think it meant the _other_ kind of dream,” whimpered Archie, looking across the room.

Lance followed his gaze. Their respective head prefects -- Marigold Cleary for Horned Serpent and Jack Knight for Thunderbird -- had evidently decided to resolve seven years of will-they-won’t-they flirtation by furiously making out on one of the tables. They weren’t the only ones. Lance was pretty sure half of the people making out didn’t even _like_ each other, which meant that they had to be under the influence of the curse.

 _Give in,_ something whispered. _Taste the pleasures of the flesh._

Nope, he thought back, stubborn. He wasn’t going to make out with anyone unless they wanted to make out with him.

“You’re really handsome,” Archie said, slow and a bit dreamy.

“Ahahaha, no,” said Lance. “Come on, we need to stop this before someone does something they’ll regret.”

Starting with Marigold and Jack, who were making up for lost time with enthusiasm. Thank Merlin it was a study period for the older students, and they weren’t going to accidentally traumatize some precocious first years.

“Get off,” Jack growled at him, when Lance tried to tug him away.

“You’re not yourself, you need to stop,” Lance said. “You don’t want to do this.”

“It’s the _only_ thing I want to do,” said Jack.

“Really?” asked Marigold. “You might’ve _said.”_

 _“Finite incantatem,”_ Lance tried.

Nothing happened.

“Right,” said Lance. _“Incarcerus.”_

“Hey!” Marigold shouted, swinging at him wildly. Her fist clipped the side of his head. “He’s mine! Don’t touch him!”

Lance did not think the way Marigold’s eyes were glowing blue was a good sign.

“Oh, fuck.”


	3. Graves Manor, Early Fall 1930

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wondrous solarfox wanted to see how Credence would handle accidental toddler magic, which was honestly too cute to pass up on.
> 
> Short and _entirely shameless_ kidfic.
> 
> [Cross-posted to tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/175733297831/happy-monday-guys-i-spent-mine-fighting-with-a)

_Early Fall, 1930_

 

Credence settled baby Peter into the crook of his arm and used _wingardium leviosa_ to float a copy of the Federal Bureau of Covert Vigilance and No-Maj Obliviations operational guidelines in the air so he could read it and still keep an eye on the kids. A nasty cold was currently making the rounds of the Woolworth Building, and half of the Auror Department had been down with it already. Alex had very generously brought his cold home to share with Dorothy, and neither of them were in any shape to look after two kids under the age of four. Credence had volunteered to look after Sammy and baby Peter for the day so both of them could get some rest.

Sammy Collins was pretty much Galahad’s favorite person in the whole wide world. As far as Gally was concerned, Sammy was his, and so was baby Peter. Credence still couldn’t tell if Gally’s possessive streak was a function of being three years old or of being a Graves. Gally was a lot like Percival, and Percival’s possessive streak was bigger than the state of New York.

Autumn had not yet faded into winter, so the garden terrace still pleasant, for all that it was bare of foliage. Gally and Sammy tore around the lawn, giggling madly. They would probably be fine until it was time for a snack.

Credence glanced up from his reading periodically, checking to make sure that the kids were still okay. Gally and Sammy weren’t prone to making trouble, but he found himself looking up every couple of minutes to check on them anyway.

Sammy tripped over her own feet and went down hard, bursting into angry-frightened tears. Gally skidded to a stop beside her, looking like he wanted to cry because Sammy was crying.

“Oh, babies, you’re okay,” Credence said, settling baby Peter into his pram so he could check on Sammy.

“Sammy, don’t cry,” Gally pleaded. It didn’t help.

Credence pulled Sammy into his arms, checking her for injury. She’d skinned her right knee a little, but other than that seemed unharmed.

That, at least, was easy to fix.

Sammy subsided into unhappy sniffling once her knee was healed. Gally looked miserable. He hated it when Sammy was upset. He toddled over to the empty flowerbeds to find something to comfort her, scowling when he realized that there were no flowers.

“Why don’t we get Sammy a snack?” Credence suggested, just before the entire garden burst into sudden, riotous bloom.

“Pretty flowers!” Sammy crowed.

“Oh my God,” said Credence, eyes gone big and round with shock. Galahad had just made the entire garden bloom.

Galahad had just made the entire garden bloom _with magic._

_“Oh my God,”_ he said again.

Gally yanked a handful of daisies out of the ground, stems and all. He toddled back to Credence and Sammy and dropped them triumphantly on Sammy’s head.


	4. New York, June 1950

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the truly glorious goddess of art [st00pz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) who wanted to know if Graves braided Olwen's hair by hand or with magic [after this timestamp.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/160758960661/the-fantastic-dailandin-mentioned-that-credence) The answer is definitely both, but there's something intensely soothing about having your hair washed or brushed or braided by someone who cares about you, so that's what I went with. 
> 
> Well. Unless you're one of those people who hates having other people touch your head. In which case, other people should respect your damn boundaries, and you may also want to give this one a pass if it's going to bug you.
> 
>  
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/175768685331/happy-tuesday-guys-im-back-to-about-five-reams)

_New York, June 1950_

 

Olwen woke up just before dawn, unable to stay in bed any longer. She got dressed in the dark, donning her clothes like armor. She stood in front of the mirror, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she debated what to do next.

Part of her wanted to Apparate to Galahad’s apartment. Galahad would understand why she was nervous; it hadn’t been _that_ long since he’d been promoted from Auror trainee to junior Auror.

The rest of her didn’t want to burden Galahad with her worries. Olwen knew full well that Galahad had it worse than the rest of them did. He was the oldest, not to mention very obviously Dad’s heir, which meant that people would always be watching, no matter what he did. And Galahad -- who was a lot more like Dad than he was ever going to admit -- would always make sure that everyone else’s eyes _stayed_ on him so Olwen and the rest of their siblings would have it just a little bit easier than he did.

Galahad had enough to worry about. And it wasn’t like Olwen was going to be able to go running to her big brother every time she ran into problems after today anyway.

Start as you mean to go on, she thought, and Apparated to Graves Manor instead.

Dad and Papa were both early risers. Olwen let herself in the front door and headed for the kitchen.

Neither of her parents seemed particularly surprised to see her.

“Big day today,” Papa said, somehow managing to herd Olwen to the table and set a full plate in front of her before she fully realized what he was doing. A mug of coffee floated from the sideboard to the table, diluted with just a splash of milk and two sugars, exactly the way she liked it. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head before he settled back at the table with his own breakfast.

“Yeah,” Olwen said.

“Nervous?” asked Papa, his dark eyes soft and understanding.

“Excited,” Olwen said. She was nervous, too, but she was a Graves. Nerves were something that happened to other people.

“You’re going to be incredible,” Papa said.

Papa had a way of saying things that made people believe him. His faith settled Olwen’s nerves enough that she managed to finish her breakfast.

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” Dad said, when she’d finished. He set a black velvet box from Revere’s on the table next to Olwen’s elbow.

“Aurors shouldn’t wear jewelry,” Olwen said automatically, fighting down the urge to cry.

“Open it,” said Dad.

Olwen opened the box, revealing a silver forked hair comb with a stylized version of MACUSA’s eagle made of onyx set into it. Olwen caressed the surface of it gently, too overwhelmed for words.

“May I?” Dad asked, gesturing to Olwen’s hair.

Olwen nodded.

Dad freed her hair from the loose braid Olwen wore to sleep, _accio_ -ing a brush as he did so. Olwen relaxed as Dad went to work. She’d worn her hair in braids since before she was old enough to make her preferences known, and anyone who’d touched her hair had only ever done so with love.

Olwen was more than capable of braiding her own hair with magic. She didn’t even need a wand, no matter how complicated the end result was. But there was something about having someone else -- someone who loved her -- braid her hair that reminded her that she was safe and protected and loved. At Ilvermorny, all of Wampus knew to stay out of her way when she left her hair loose and stalked out of her dorm with a brush in her hands, looking for one of her brothers or for Sam to settle her back in her own skin.

Not much had changed, now that she was a woman grown.

Dad had mastered most of Auntie Win’s braids by the time Olwen was ten, but he still preferred to do some things by hand, the way that Papa did. He wove Olwen’s hair into a crown around her head, leaving just a little of it to drape down her back like a banner. He tucked the hair comb against the back of her skull, a reminder of who she was and what she served.

“I’m so proud of you,” he said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Now get going. It wouldn’t do for us to arrive together.”

Olwen dashed her tears away. “Yes, sir,” she managed.

 

*

 

What felt like half of MACUSA turned up for graduation. Olwen kept her spine ramrod straight throughout the speeches, even though she’d heard them all before.

“Welcome to MACUSA, Auror Graves,” Dad said, when it was her turn to cross the stage. He offered her his hand to shake.

No. Not Dad.

Director Graves.

“Thank you, sir,” Olwen said. She shook his hand and went to join the rest of the graduates from her training group as a proper Auror at last.

Olwen was a Graves of MACUSA, like her brother and father and countless generations back to the Founding before her. She reached up and brushed the flat surface of her hair comb with her fingers, relishing in the protective feel of her parents magic.

It was her duty to stand as a shield between her people and anyone who meant them harm, and that was exactly what she meant to do.

“Congratulations, Auror Graves,” Papa said, once the ceremony was over. “Thank you for your service.”

Olwen threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “No,” she said fiercely. “Thank _you.”_

None of this would have been possible without Papa -- the strength of his heart and the courage of his convictions. Papa represented those who would have otherwise not had a voice with which to speak for themselves.

Galahad might have been Dad’s heir, and that was fine.

Olwen was going to be Papa’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Graves Brood in June of 1950 consists of:
> 
>  **Ilvermorny Graduates:**  
>  Galahad, age 23  
> Olwen, age 19
> 
>  **At Ilvermorny:**  
>  Gawain, age 17  
> Elaine, age 16  
> Gareth, age 14  
> Lucan, age 14  
> Lyonesse, age 11
> 
>  **Too young for Ilvermorny:**  
>  Dagonet, age 8


	5. New York, May 1928

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the fabulous jennipea, who wanted to see Tina and Credence's adventures in repealing Rappaport's Law and/or saving all the at-risk No-Maj born babies. I went with the former.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/175834452956/is-it-friday-yet-kinda-in-the-mood-to-write)

“Miss Goldstein,” Senator Featherstone began, obviously gearing up to lecture Tina on how little she understood about law. As if he knew any better, the fatheaded moron.

“Auror Goldstein,” Credence interrupted, narrowing his eyes at the senator.

Featherstone did not scowl, but Tina was pretty sure he wanted to. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, dripping sarcasm.

“Her proper title is Auror Goldstein,” Credence said, ignoring the sarcasm. “Tina’s devoted her life to protecting MACUSA. The least you can do to honor that is use her proper title.”

“Ah. Of course. _Auror_ Goldstein, Rappaport’s Law exists for a reason.”

If he started explaining Rappaport’s Law to her, Tina refused to be held accountable for her actions. A broken nose was the least of what Featherstone would have coming.

“Rappaport’s Law is a relic,” Tina retorted. “Our laws should grow with our people, sir. Times have changed, and so must the law.”

Featherstone stared at her. “Times have changed?” he repeated, incredulous. “How? Mercy Lewis, woman, do you have any idea who you’ve gotten into bed with? You’re working with a damned _Barebone._ His own mother was one of Bartholomew Barebone’s descendents! Those so-called Second Salemers are everything Rappaport’s Law is meant to prevent!”

Credence caught her wrist before she could punch Featherstone in the face.

“Punching him won’t help,” he said, very calmly for all that he’d gone white with rage.

“You don’t know that,” Tina said, mulish. “Maybe it’ll teach him to keep his stupid mouth shut next time!”

“Tina.”

Credence’s tendency to be reasonable when people needed to be punched in the head was _incredibly frustrating_ sometimes. Most of the time Tina admired the hell out of his self-control, but some people just needed their asses kicked.

“Fine,” Tina said ungraciously.

Featherstone eyed her like she was a bomb that might still go off at any second.

Tina wouldn’t, but Featherstone didn’t need to know that. She grinned at him, showing teeth.

“You seem to be laboring under a number of misconceptions, senator,” Tina said, taking care to keep her voice pleasant and even. It was a trick she’d picked up from Graves, who could make that tone sound like _you’re a fucking moron and I can fix that for you._ She wasn’t sure how Graves managed to make that sound like a threat, but there was no denying that people found that pleasant tone unnerving. “Allow me to enlighten you. I am working with Credence Graves, not ‘a damned Barebone.’ Furthermore, Mary Lou Barebone was Credence’s _adopted_ mother. He shares neither her blood nor her name. There are no more Barebones. The last of them died a year ago, and the Second Salem movement died with her.”

“The last of the Barebones died with my adopted sister,” Credence said quietly. “Her name was Modesty. She was eight years old.”

Featherstone frowned at him, obviously confused about what Credence was getting at. Most people didn’t think of the Obscurial as a person, much less a child.

“Modesty was the Obscurial,” Tina explained. “She was eight years old, and she was so afraid of her magic that she died of it.”

Tina had barely known the girl and Modesty’s death still hurt. She was a _child,_ and now she was dead.

Before Modesty, Tina had known that she wouldn’t be able to save everyone, but her knowledge of it was academic. Now she finally understood what it meant.

Tina had not become an Auror just so she could stand by and watch children die. She hadn’t been able to save Modesty, but she could save others like her.

Featherstone looked uncomfortable. Most politicians didn’t like being confronted with real people -- real losses.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he told Credence, clearly ready to chivvy them out of his office.

“MACUSA failed us,” Credence told him. “People like Modesty -- people like me -- we’re the ones that Rappaport’s Law hurts. We should have been brought to your world, and we slipped through the cracks instead.

“I’m lucky. I lived. Modesty didn’t.”

“We have to do better, senator,” Tina said. “Repealing Rappaport’s Law is how we start.”


	6. St. Brigid's Hospital, June 23, 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [johnnythirteenguns](http://johnnythirteenguns.tumblr.com/) wanted to know if there would be a birth scene in the timestamps. I hadn't written one, but the opportunity to watch Percival be ridiculous and freak out was too good to pass up on.
> 
> That said, warnings for probably inaccurate, non-graphic descriptions of childbirth.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/173269132576/will-there-be-a-birth-scene-by-any-chance-in-the)

“Right,” Percival said. He sounded like he was trying to be decisive and mostly just sounded manic instead. “We should go to the hospital.”

Credence resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not going to give birth right this second,” he pointed out. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine,” Percival retorted. “You’re in labor.”

Credence gave him the flat, unimpressed look that statement deserved. “Really,” he said. “I hadn’t noticed.”

It took Percival a moment to realize that he was being sarcastic. “Right,” he said again. “We should -- wait. Are you making fun of me?”

“Just a little,” Credence told him.

“Oh.”

Credence kissed the hurt expression off his face. “I’m _fine,”_ he said again, trying to sound more confident than he felt. Percival was clearly hovering on the edge of panic, and if he started panicking, then Credence would start panicking too. “Everyone says that first babies take a long time,” he added, because pretty much everyone who’d ever had a baby had felt the need to tell him that. He still wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t exactly what he considered _helpful_ advice. “The Bluebird said it’s better to stay at home where I’ll be comfortable, at least for the first part.”

“Right,” Percival said for a third time, still looking a little bit confused and anxious.

Credence could practically _see_ the part of his brain that was an Auror and not a panicked first time father turn on, obviously recalling everything that the Bluebird had said. Reviewing the case, he thought.

The Bluebird had pulled them both into her office after Credence’s last check-up, and proceeded to make sure that they both had a thorough understanding of what was to come. “You’ll both panic less if you know what’s going on,” she’d explained.

She’d gone through labor and delivery from a physiological perspective first, describing the work Credence’s body would be doing to bring their son into the world. Then she’d gone through it from a magical and medical perspective, which had been more focused on the androgenesis spells. The last explanation had been mostly anecdotes about other babies she’d helped bring into the world, which Credence found reassuring. The Bluebird knew what she was doing. He and the baby would be fine.

The Bluebird had been right about the panicking, though.

Some of the tension bled out of Percival’s shoulders. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

Credence kissed him again, craving the closeness and the comfort of the familiar. “I like it when you’re ridiculous,” he admitted. Percival was always so composed. Credence liked it when Percival’s unyielding self-control slipped a little and revealed all the messy human bits beneath.

Percival tugged him into his arms, offering up familiar safe haven. Credence closed his eyes and relaxed into him, letting Percival’s strength anchor him.

One of Percival’s hands crept to his stomach, protective and tender. “I’m probably going to get more ridiculous from here on out,” he warned. “I never -- I never expected anything like this. A home. A husband. A _family._ I always thought --” he broke off.

Credence could fill in the blanks well enough. He had a pretty good idea of what Percival’s life had been like before they’d met, full of duty and honor and empty of anything that was just for him.

“I love you,” Percival said, in lieu of saying any of that. “Both of you.”

“I love you, too,” Credence said, opening his eyes again. He tilted his head back, signalling that he wanted to be kissed. Percival obliged him gladly.

“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Percival asked.

Credence thought about it. He wasn’t particularly uncomfortable at the moment -- or at least, not any more uncomfortable than usual, swollen and ungainly as he was. He would be glad once all of this was over; pregnancy was awkward and exhausting and he was ready to be done with it.

“A backrub would be nice,” he admitted.

Percival grinned, relieved. “I can do that.”

 

*

 

Ma used to tell him to be grateful for a lot of things: for the roof over his head, patched and leaky as it was; for the threadbare clothes on his back, thin shirts and jackets that never cut the winter chill; for the food on their table, which held barely enough nutrition to be called food, much less feed a growing child. She used to tell him to be grateful for the punishments she gave him, because he would be cleansed of his sinful nature through suffering and prayer.

Credence had never been grateful for any of it. He’d tried, he really had, but something in his nature was too sinful to find salvation at Ma’s hands.

He was grateful now, because Ma’s cruelty meant that he had a lot of practice at swallowing down the pain and making no sound. Ma hadn’t liked it when he cried.

Percival would not be angry with him for crying, or for giving voice to the pain, but he would hurt because Credence was hurting and that was worse. He looked like someone had ripped his chest open and was stabbing directly at his heart whenever some faint noise slipped past Credence’s teeth.

The pain rose up in waves, one after another, unending. It was like Grindelwald’s torture curse, except there was no way to make this stop.

His stomach lurched as thought he’d Apparated somewhere. “S-sick,” he managed to say, vomiting into the bowl someone shoved into Percival’s hands. “I thought this was going to _stop,”_ he cried, helpless against the tide of hurt.

“Almost there,” Percival soothed, wiping his face with a cloth.

Credence grabbed his hand, trying to anchor himself in Percival’s strength. Percival was the only solid, fixed point. Nothing else existed -- not the nurses or the Bluebird or anyone else -- there was only Percival and pain.

“You’re doing so well, love,” Percival said. “I’m so proud of you. You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I’m not,” Credence said. “I _can’t.”_

“You can,” Percival said, steady as the mountains and just as solid.

Someone else caught his attention. Credence would have screamed at them if he could, because how dare they try to take Percival from him now, when Credence needed him the most, but the words got lost. Percival’s eyes returned to his face. “Listen to your body, love,” he said. “Push whenever you’re ready.”

Credence wanted to hit him. What utter nonsense was that? Listen to his body? All his body was telling him was that he _hurt_ and he wanted it to _stop._

And then, all of a sudden, it didn’t. The pain shifted from agony into something different, something purposeful. He bore down, feeling the child inside him shift closer to the rest of the world. It hurt -- oh, God, it _hurt_ \-- but it was pain he knew how to bear.

“That’s it,” Percival said encouragingly, glancing nervously at the foot of the bed. “Again, darling.”

Credence nodded, panting with the effort of it. “Again,” he agreed, and suited action to words. He lost track of time again, entirely focused on the task at hand. Percival was the only one who mattered -- Percival and their son. He let Percival’s voice carry him through the worst of it, collapsing back onto the bed with a scream of triumph after the last, mighty effort and heard it echoed back in an infant’s angry wail.

“Oh,” Credence said, trying to sit up.

“Rest a second,” Percival said.

“Is he --?” Credence asked.

“Healthy,” the Bluebird reported, from her place between Credence’s legs. “You did beautifully,” she added.

Nurse Sally brought him a blanket wrapped bundle and set it carefully on Credence’s chest.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Credence said, marveling at the miracle of creation. His son was splotchy and red, still covered in blood and other fluids. He was the most beautiful thing Credence had ever seen.

“He’s perfect,” Percival said, misty-eyed. He bent to press a kiss to the side of Credence’s sweaty face. “Thank you,” he breathed. “I love you so much. Thank you.”

For once, Credence was barely aware of Percival. He stroked his son’s cheek, trying to memorize every bit of him.

“Hello, Galahad,” he said. “I’m your Papa.”


	7. The Empire State Building, June 1931

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author emerges from the wilderness with an update after 84 years. Sorry, guys.
> 
> Written for the delightful [tora42](http://tora42.tumblr.com/) who wanted to know if there was a wizarding version of Phryne Fisher running around.
> 
> When I got done flailing around and making hearteyes at the very thought, I went, oh, hell yes. And then this happened.
> 
>  
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/173502782146/having-just-worked-my-way-through-the-possible)

_The Empire State Building, June 1931_

 

Graves had been Seraphina’s default escort to more parties than he could count for the better part of three decades. He was, as Seraphina was fond of reminding him, the correct age, rank and gender to accompany her.

Graves had given up on trying to squirm out of escort duty not long after they’d both turned twenty. Seraphina was better at arguing -- as well she should be, as one of Judge Garland’s proteges -- and she always won.

Graves had tried pointing out that _rank_ was not a social construct Americans needed to concern themselves with -- they didn’t have anything like England’s fading aristocracy.

Seraphina had given him the _you’re lucky you’re pretty because you’re also kind of dumb_ look such fatuous nonsense deserved. “This from a scion of the Twelve,” she’d said witheringly.

“Oh, and a Picquery of Georgia’s something to scoff at?” he’d retorted.

“My point exactly. Both of our Houses are old, well-established magical bloodlines,” she’d said, ticking her points off on her fingers. “Which is _precisely_ the sort of thing people pay attention to -- particularly the society pages of the _New York Ghost._ You’re in Magical Law Enforcement and I’m in Magical Law, so it makes sense for us to be seen together.”

“Also, we’ve been friends since we were _ten,”_ Graves had pointed out.

“Also that,” Seraphina had acknowledged. “Which should hopefully cut down on people speculating about whether or not we’re sleeping together.”

Graves had made an appalled face. “No one’s going to do that,” he’d declared.

Seraphina’s expression had been equally appalled. “Donaldson writes for the _Ghost,”_ she’d said grimly.

“I’m going to break his fucking nose if he writes that,” Graves had said.

“Good. You’ll have something to look forward to. Now get dressed. We’re going to be late for the party.”

“I hate parties,” Graves had said.

It had taken them the better part of three decades, two broken noses, four Howlers, one righteous ass-kicking (courtesy of Seraphina), one public ass-kicking via wizarding duel (courtesy of Graves) and eight terrifyingly scathing letters from Grandmama Genevieve’s coven, but the _New York Ghost_ had eventually given up on trying to romantically link Seraphina and Graves. Even Adrienne Gallagher knew better than to try, because all of Graves and Seraphina’s previous hissy fits would pale in comparison to what _Credence_ would do if the _New York Ghost_ tried their usual rumor-mongering.

These days, Graves escorting Seraphina to a party barely rated more than an inch or two in the society pages, and that was only to describe what they were wearing.

Seraphina dug her nails into Graves’ arm. “Smile,” she hissed under her breath.

Graves bared his teeth. “I am smiling,” he hissed back.

Seraphina checked his expression out of the corner of her eye, pausing to exchange air kisses with one of the junior ICW delegates. “That is not smiling,” she said, sotto voce. Her tone heavily implied that she would remove his guts and use them to string a piano with if he didn’t stop fucking around. “You’re doing that thing, where you’re pretending to smile and what you’re actually doing is scaring the shit out of people.”

Yes. Yes, he was. The junior delegates were starting to give them a wide berth. Graves regretted nothing.

“I hate parties,” he muttered.

“Marie Leveau,” Seraphina swore. “Go get us drinks if you’re going to be useless.”

“Yes, Madam Ambassador,” Graves said.

Seraphina let go of his arm, gliding across the room like a bird of prey taking flight. Graves watched her go, checking for threats.

Seraphina had gotten death threats before, but this was the first since she’d stepped down as president and become one of MACUSA’s ambassadors with the ICW instead.

Seraphina caught him watching her. She inclined her head towards the drinks table in silent command.

Graves obeyed.

There was another wizard studying the drinks list, hands clasped lightly behind his back.

No, Graves thought. Not another wizard. Another Auror, to say nothing of a former soldier. He could see it in the way the man stood, the careful watchfulness of his gaze.

The other Auror could see it too, sizing Graves up with clever brown eyes. “Any recommendations?” he asked.

If he was drinking, he wasn’t on duty. At least, not anymore than Graves himself was.

“I’m partial to whiskey, myself,” he offered. He eyed the other Auror. Both of their drinks were likely to end up in the nearest potted plant, or surreptitiously vanished if there was no convenient nearby foliage. “Two Dark Alleys, please,” he told the house elf.

The house elf gave him an unimpressed look, but produced the cocktails anyway.

“Do I want to know?” the other Auror asked. He had an Australian accent, and his voice was a warm golden baritone, rich with amusement. He clearly had some inkling that what Graves had just ordered was cheap Auror’s rotgut.

Graves offered him a glass. “It’s a favorite amongst junior Aurors,” he offered, taking a sip. It was pretty much exactly as terrible as he remembered.

“Christ,” the other Auror said. “You actually drink this?”

“Not in years,” Graves said cheerfully.

That got him an amused look. “You’re no junior Auror,” he agreed.

Graves offered him his hand. “Percival Graves.”

“Jack Robinson,” said the other wizard, shaking it firmly.

“What brings you to America, Detective Inspector?” Graves asked, taking a stab at Robinson’s rank. The cut of Robinson’s suit was very fine -- the sort a man with ambition wore, or perhaps one with a wealthy partner -- but Robinson carried himself like a man who was more used to action than desk work.

“I would imagine it’s the same thing that’s brought you to an embassy ball, Director,” Robinson said, pretending to take another sip of his drink. He managed to vanish just a little of it as he did so, with only the faintest twitch of his fingers to betray that he’d done any magic at all.

Graves admired the subtlety of it, as well as the careful non-answer. He so very rarely found worthy sparring partners these days.

“Diplomacy?” he suggested, just to see what Robinson would say.

“Peacekeeping, rather,” Robinson said.

That was an interesting way to of putting it. Graves made a note to find out who had invited Robinson, and how long they’d be in America. It was always good to know Aurors in other countries.

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” he said.

“You have no idea,” Robinson said, heartfelt.

“I’d love to hear --” Graves broke off as something caught his attention. He was used to listening to his instincts, so he wasn’t even aware of what it was until he’d Apparated across the room and placed himself squarely in between Seraphina and the witch she’d been talking to and wizard reaching for her with one black-gloved hand.

“Fuck!” the other wizard spat, raising his other black-gloved hand. It held a red glowing cube.

Instinct kicked in.

 _“Protego Horribilis!”_ Graves snarled, feeling the shield snap in place around the wizard and whatever explosive the cube contained. He built a secondary shield between the wizard and the rest of the partygoers. _“Protego Maxima. Finato Duri.”_

The assassin realized that he was trapped too late and brought the cube down. Graves threw his arms up to protect his eyes, gathering his power up and reinforcing the shields as best he could against the conflagration.

He felt the _protego horribilis_ crack and braced himself.

 _“Protego Duo!”_ two voices snapped in tandem, their magic shielding him from the worst of the blast. Graves felt Seraphina’s magic slide against his own, reinforcing the _protego maxima_ he’d cast.

“Are you quite mad?” Robinson demanded.

“I should say so,” said Robinson’s companion. It was the witch Seraphina had been talking to, just before the attack. She peered at Graves with curiously familiar grey-green eyes. “Lieutenant Graves?”

Graves frowned, trying to place where he knew her from. “Nurse Phryne?”

Phryne Fisher looked at the smoldering corpse. “Really, Lieutenant Graves,” she said.

Graves felt this was unfair and said so. “Don’t start, Phryne,” he said. “If I hadn’t dealt with him, _you_ would have.” That was the _last_ thing MACUSA needed. Phryne Fisher was a lot like Theseus -- explosions and magical duels just kind of happened around her. Usually because she’d caused them.

Of course, being Phryne, she also _won_ them, but that was neither here nor there.

“Ah,” said Robinson, going suddenly poker-faced. “You’ve met.”

Graves cast a smoke screen in between the rest of the party and the body. Civilians rarely responded well to crime scenes, and if no one could see what happened, it tended to cut down on both the sordid headlines _and_ the amount of hysteria.

“Ladies and gentleman, if you would all proceed to the next room,” Graves said loudly. “MLE will take your statements and see you safely home.”

He was going to have to get his people out of bed for this. Fuck, this was going to drive his overtime budget through the roof. The Keeper of Dragots and Treasures would have his balls for this.

“I’m sure Director Graves has everything under control,” Seraphina added, in her very best _I’m the fucking Queen and I am In Control_ voice.

Graves caught her eye. “You alright?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, just once. “Fine, thanks to you.”

Phryne snapped her fingers. “You’re Lieutenant Graves’ Lady of the Lake,” she said triumphantly.

“His what?” Seraphina asked.

 _What the hell, Percival,_ said Seraphina’s expression.

Phryne beamed at her. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she told Seraphina. “He used to talk about you like you were Titania and Boudicca and Morgana all in one.”

“Oh, hell,” said Graves.

Seraphina buried the gleeful _I am going to use this as blackmail forever_ expression beneath professional calm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Phryne,” she said. “We’ll have to discuss how you know Percival later.” She looked over the rest of the partygoers. “Everything is under control. If you’ll follow me?” She looked at Phryne, who tucked her arm charitably in Seraphina’s.

“If you’ll follow us,” Phryne corrected, plucking Robinson’s glass of Dark Alley rotgut from his hand and draining it with aplomb, as only Phryne could. She didn’t seem to notice the burn or the taste.

Graves watched the two women drag the rest of the partygoers out of the room by sheer force of personality and tried not to think about what stories they might be telling one another. Or worse -- what stories they might decide to share with Credence.

He scowled darkly at the corpse. “I blame you for this.”


	8. The Woolworth Building, June 1936

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, [oph-brand](https://oph-brand.tumblr.com/) wanted to see something based on this scene:
> 
>  
> 
> _“Grr,” said Credence, pressing a kiss to Graves’ cheek. “Growly Percival.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _And, well, Graves had to kiss him after that, didn’t he? “Promise me,” he said, “that you won’t do that in front of my Aurors.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _A month ago, Credence would’ve agreed without thinking about it. Now he just looked at Graves and let his expression go politely inquiring._
> 
>  
> 
> _“It’s fucking adorable,” Graves said. “My reputation for being a cold-hearted bastard will never survive if my Aurors see me go all doe-eyed over my adorable husband.”_
> 
>  
> 
> So I did. [This also has art,](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174216568991/promise-me-he-said-that-you-wont-do-that-in>Originally%20posted%20on%20tumblr%20here.</a>%0A%0A<a%20href=) drawn by the seriously amazing and talented [st00pz.](http://st00pz.tumblr.com/) It's so pretty, I am dyyyyying.

_The Woolworth Building, June 1936_

 

“I’m going to murder him,” Win said.

“Do not murder him,” John instructed, his calm mask starting to show strain around the edges.

Win glowered at him, her expression thunderous.

John actually scowled at her, which meant that Graves’ temper was starting to wear on him as well.

Win relented. “I could put a sleeping potion in his coffee,” he said.

“Tempting, but no,” said John.

“The Flores Draught?” she persisted.

“Only if you want him to murder _you,”_ said John. “He _hates_ the Flores Draught.”

Win gave him an unimpressed look. “Does it look like I give a fuck what he wants right now?” she asked. “No. No, I do not. What _I_ want is for him to stop acting like he’s got his head shoved so far up his ass he could wear it as a hat.”

John’s expression suggested that he also wanted this, and could be convinced to let Win do something insanely stupid if it got him what he wanted.

Alex put his head down on his desk and wished it wasn’t his turn to play the voice of reason. It wasn’t that he didn’t see their point -- Graves was being a complete and utter bastard -- it was just that he didn’t see how pissing Graves off even more was going to help.

“Damnit,” he muttered.

“No,” Win commanded.

“No, what?” Alex asked his desk.

“You’re going to be reasonable about this. _Do not_ be reasonable about this.”

“Pissing Graves off isn’t going to help,” Alex pointed out.

“You don’t fucking know that!”

“Yes, I fucking do!” he said, lifting his head up. “All it’s going to do is give him something else to be pissed at, not to mention _someone_ else to be _specifically_ pissed at. Putting a target on your back isn’t going to fix anything.”

Win took her glasses off and used her handkerchief to clean them, squinting at him while she did so.

Alex recognized the gesture. Win only did that to buy time. He was right and she knew it. She just didn’t want to _admit_ it.

“Fucking shit,” said Win. “I hate it when you’re right. Fine. But if he criticizes my paperwork _one more fucking time_ I will break his damn nose.”

“If he makes the senior Aurors cry, I’ll hold and you can punch,” John put in.

“Not the junior Aurors?” Alex asked, distracted.

“Graves knows better than to make the junior Aurors cry,” said John.

“Ah. Good point. Fortunately for both of you, it’s not going to come to that,” Alex said, grabbing a sheet of paper. He tore a strip of it off and scribbled a brief note. “I have a secret weapon. I’ll be right back.”

 

*

 

“Sonofabitch bastard,” Win breathed. _“Secret weapon_ my ass. Remind me not to piss you off, Collins.” 

“This is not what I’d call fighting fair,” John observed. He’d managed to restore his usual calm mask, but Alex could read approval in the faint crows feet around his eyes.

“Screw fighting fair,” said Alex. It was one of Graves’ principle tenets. He usually finished it with: _fighting fair gets you killed. Fight hard and fight **smart** and come back alive. You’re no good to MACUSA dead._

Alex got up and went to greet his secret weapon.

One corner of Credence’s mouth quirked up when he saw Alex. It transformed into a full blown grin once Alex got closer. “One dragonslayer, reporting for duty.”

Alex was too frazzled to care that Credence was obviously laughing at him. “Thank Merlin you’re here,” he said.

Credence patted his shoulder as if he were Galahad’s age and not a fully trained Auror. “Poor Alex,” he said sympathetically. He brushed his lips against Alex’s cheek. “Dorothy sends her love. Also baked goods.” He hefted the basket slung over one arm in demonstration.

“I love you,” Alex muttered. He held his hand out for the basket. Dorothy would murder him if she thought he wasn’t taking good enough care of Credence. Credence tired easily these days, even if he didn’t want to admit it. Dorothy worried.

Credence quirked an eyebrow at him. Alex suspected Credence didn’t appreciate the coddling, but he knew as well as Alex did that Dorothy’s word was law, so he let Alex take the basket.

Win made grabby hands at the basket. “Marry me,” she said.

“Are you talking to the baked goods or Credence?” Alex asked.

Win shoved a muffin in her mouth. “Bof?”

“Win,” Credence said mildly.

Win swallowed. “Er,” she said. “Right. Manners.”

“Yes,” said Credence. “Manners. It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes?” Win said, drawing the word out. Credence gave her the same look he usually gave Galahad and Sammy and Ollie when they got up to some mischief. It was a remarkably effective look. “I mean, yes.”

“Also, it sets a bad example for Ollie, and you know how she adores you,” Credence continued, ruthlessly exploiting Win’s own fondness for his oldest daughter.

Win made a vague noise of agreement, or possibly a whimper for mercy. It was hard to tell.

“Thank you, Credence,” John said. Politely, because John was always polite. It was why he and Credence got along so well.

“It’s my pleasure, John. Now. Point me in the direction of your dragon.”

As one, the Aurors in the bullpen turned to eye Graves’ closed office door warily.

“Oh dear,” Credence sighed. “He _is_ behaving badly, isn’t he?”

“Save us,” muttered one of the junior Aurors.

Credence sighed and went to knock on Graves’ office door.

The Aurors held their breath.

After a minute, Graves yanked his office door open. “Someone had better fucking be _bleeding out --”_ he began, and stopped once he caught sight of Credence.

“That seems a bit drastic,” Credence observed.

Graves’ expression softened as soon as he caught sight of his husband, going from ferociously pissed off to something so tender that Alex wanted to cast a smoke screen between the two of them and the rest of the bullpen’s prying eyes. 

Credence tilted his face towards Graves. Alex had seen that gesture often enough to know that it heralded a kiss and cast a quick silencing spell on Win before she could wolf whistle at the pair of them and remind Graves that he was pissed off all over again. A good chunk of the junior Aurors and newly promoted Aurors dropped their gazes in secondhand embarrassment; senior officers weren’t supposed to have sex lives, much less be so obviously in love with their spouses. The rest of the division openly stared; even now, after close to ten years of marriage, it was rare to see Graves so human.

“You’re all rumbly,” Credence observed.

Well, Alex thought. That was one way of putting it. And “rumbly” was nicer than “behaving like a complete bastard.”

“Rumbly,” Graves repeated.

“Grr,” Credence elaborated. “Growly Percival.”

Alex was suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful he’d cast that silencing charm on Win, who looked like it was her birthday and Christmas come early all at once.

“Growly,” repeated Graves, sounding dismayed.

“Grr,” Credence said again, not even trying to sound intimidating.

Alex bit down on his knuckles to keep from bursting into delighted laughter.

“Right,” Graves said. “What are you doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be --”

“Percival Graves, if the next word out of your mouth is ‘resting,’ I may actually scream,” Credence interrupted.

Oh dear. He _was_ getting tired of the coddling.

Alex didn’t blame Graves for wanting to coddle his pregnant husband, honestly. Hell, _he_ wanted to coddle Credence, and he wasn’t even married to the man. Credence had borne four healthy children, and as far as Alex knew, none of his other pregnancies had tired him out so badly. Alex worried. So did Dorothy, even if she tried to hide it.

“-- making Congressmen quiver in awe and terror?” Graves finished smoothly.

“Nice save,” said Credence.

“I do actually have a sense of self-preservation, you know,” protested Graves.

“Do you?” Credence inquired. “Do you _really?”_

Graves made a martyred face. “Leave me some dignity before my Aurors, please,” he said, clearing his throat. “I believe you all have jobs to do?” he added pointedly.

John chuckled, heading into his own office. “Too late, Percival,” he murmured, low enough that Alex had to strain to hear him. “They all know you’re human, now.”

“Yeah, I know,” Graves said, but he didn’t look like he minded all that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I kind of forgot that keeping track of the kiddos in the end notes was a thing I was doing. Sorry! I will go back and update the previous chapters.
> 
> The Graves Brood in June of 1936 consists of: 
> 
> Galahad, age 9  
> Olwen, age 5 (and a half, which is super important when you're five and a half)  
> Gawain, age 3  
> Elaine, age 2


	9. The Woolworth Building, December 1938

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people mentioned wanting to see the conversation Graves has with Hunter in 8 years, regarding the raising of precocious little hellions.
> 
> It references this conversation, from Chapter 6 of the previous volume of Timestamps:
> 
> _“I’m just glad one of you is finally having children, and you can experience what minding the pair of you is like first hand.”_
> 
> _“It can’t be that bad,” said Graves._
> 
> _“In eight years,” said Hunter, “I am going to firecall and ask if you remember this conversation, and I am going to laugh and laugh when you’re forced to eat crow.”_
> 
> One of them was right about this. It was not Graves.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/173693821171/a-few-people-have-mentioned-wanting-to-see-the)

_The Woolworth Building, December 1938_

 

Graves _hated_ MACUSA’s annual employee evaluations. He hated writing them, he hated reviewing them, he hated the whole damn process. His employees were damn good at what they did and he knew it -- more than that, he made sure that everyone else knew it, too. Why was that not good enough?

Worse yet, as Head of MLE, it was _his_ job to remind everyone else to turn the fucking things in.

Graves stared at the small mountain of paperwork on his desk and cursed MACUSA’s bureaucracy.

Someone knocked on the door to his office.

“Did I come at a bad time?” Silas Hunter inquired.

Graves blinked. Hunter was rarely in the Woolworth Building these days; his tenure as president had ended in 1936. Graves served at President Shellstrop’s pleasure, these days. The last Graves had heard of him, Hunter had decided to take up beekeeping, of all the damn things.

“No, sir,” he said. “Please, come in.”

Hunter smiled. The expression -- and the lack of stress -- took years off of his face. “Thank you,” he said. He held up the bottle in his left hand. “I brought refreshments.”

Graves raised his eyebrows. “Twenty year old Roanoke,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”

Hunter settled himself in one of the chairs across from Graves’ desk. “What are you -- Ah. Employee evaluations?”

Graves suppressed a snarl. “Employee evaluations,” he agreed grimly.

“I always hated those.”

“I still do.”

“You can’t deny they’re useful, though,” Hunter said, heading for Graves’ liquor cabinet and producing two glasses. “They let our employees know that we recognize their strengths _and_ their weaknesses, and format plans for improvement. They also help justify your department budget.”

“I’m filling out the fucking forms, Silas. You don’t need to sell me on them.”

“Is that any way to speak to the former president?”

“I’m filling out the fucking forms, _Mr. President,”_ Graves amended.

Hunter smirked at him. He set both glasses down on Graves’ desk and generously filled both of them.

“You never said what the occasion was,” Graves said, when Hunter passed him a glass.

“I did,” Hunter told him. “Eight years ago.”

Graves frowned. What the hell was Hunter getting at?

“You and Seraphina were being -- well. You and Seraphina. And I told you I was just glad that one of you was finally having children, so you could experience first hand what trying to mind precocious little shits was like,” Hunter prompted.

Graves vaguely remembered that conversation. It had something to do with that dust up between his team and FBCVNMO.

“Wait,” he said. “Are you _gloating?”_ He looked at the glass in his hand. “Is this smug bastard whiskey?”

“It’s expensive whiskey, now drink it and fess up.” Hunter grinned at him. “How has Galahad’s first year at Ilvermorny gone? And _do_ keep in mind that Evan Jauncey and I are old friends.”

Graves looked at his whiskey in dismay. Smug bastard whiskey would have been bad enough, but this was the whiskey of betrayal.

“Oh, what the hell,” he said. He was going to need alcohol to get through the evaluations anyway, and Hunter’s bottle was a finer pour than the one in his liquor cabinet. “If you’re old friends with Evan Jauncey, you already know how Galahad’s first year at Ilvermorny is going.”

“We haven’t discussed it,” Hunter said primly. “I just wanted you to know I have resources if you lie to me.”

“I wouldn’t lie,” Graves said.

“Graves.”

“Oh, fine,” said Graves. “I probably would have.”

It wasn’t that Galahad wasn’t doing well at Ilvermorny, because he was. His grades were fantastic. It was just that Galahad had a bit of an anti-authoritarian streak if he didn’t think the authoritarian involved deserved his respect.

Graves pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think he’s taken over the dueling club. Actually, no, I think he _wants_ to takeover the dueling club, he just hasn’t figured out how to do it yet.”

Hunter made a noise of exasperated amusement. “He’s eleven. How much can he possibly know about dueling?”

“He’s a Graves. He knows plenty.”

Hunter sipped from his glass and waited.

“He’s been teaching the other students behind Professor Branagh’s back,” Graves sighed. “He’s smart enough not to humiliate his opponents, so they’re listening to him. The other parents have expressed some … concerns.” Concerns sounded better than complaints. He was just lucky Credence found most of them amusing, or he’d be sleeping on the couch for the rest of his very short life.

Hunter took another drink. Then he giggled.

Graves eyed him suspiciously. “Did you put gigglewater in this?” He hadn’t seen Hunter add gigglewater to it -- that would have been a terrible thing to do to good whiskey -- and he’d heard the seal on the bottle break.

Hunter set his glass down on Graves’ desk and whooped with laughter. “You raised a mini version of you!” he said.

“This is not my fault!” Graves protested.

_“You raised a miniature version of yourself,”_ Hunter said, still laughing.

“Galahad has two parents. This is not entirely on me!”

“Graves,” Hunter said seriously. “Don’t try and blame your poor sweet husband for your sins. This is _absolutely_ on you.”

Discretion was the better part of valor. Graves sipped his drink and said nothing.

“Fuck _damn,_ that’s the good stuff,” he said, impressed.

“It’s twenty year old Roanoke. It had _better_ be the good stuff.”

“True,” Graves agreed, feeling a bit more at peace with the universe.

“Taking over the dueling club is pretty mild,” Hunter said eventually. “Compared to some of your antics. And Seraphina’s.”

Graves gave him a withering look. “We weren’t _that_ bad.”

“Yes you were! You have no idea how grateful I was that I only had to put up with you two for one year. Tituba’s Bones, you’d have driven me to drink. You _did_ drive me to drink.”

“Really?”

“Just the once,” Hunter admitted. “And Harmony Carson got drunk with me. That was fun.”

Harmony Carson had been head prefect for Wampus when Graves had been a first year. Her younger sister Melody had once cast an Emperor’s New Clothes charm on Graves after dueling practice, resulting in public nudity and some admittedly poorly thought out decisions on Graves’ part.

Graves would have regretted nothing, except Seraphina delighted in telling Credence scandalous stories from their Ilvermorny days, and Credence was still, to this day, under the impression that Graves was some sort of nude exhibitionist.

“You, I understand,” Graves said. “You’re a Horned Serpent, and you lot are all a bit high strung.”

“Hey!”

“But what the hell did we do that drove _Harmony_ to drink?” he wondered. Harmony Carson had always struck him as being a model Wampus, and Wampuses were made of sterner stuff than that.

“It was after the thing with the statues,” Hunter said.

“Oh,” said Graves. “That.”

“Yes,” said Hunter. _“That.”_

Graves tried to remember if anyone had told Credence that story. Or worse -- if they’d told Credence that story while any of the children could hear them. Galahad probably wouldn’t try activating the security statues, but Gawain -- who had a knack for spellwork and cursebreaking -- would likely see it as a challenge.

“What?” Hunter asked.

“I was just thinking that I hope no one ever tells that story where the children can hear them,” Graves said. “Because Gawain would take it as a challenge.”

Hunter started laughing again. “This is your comeuppance, you know,” he said. “Having children that are just like you.”

Graves vanished the chair from beneath him, which did very little to stifle Hunter’s laughter. “Shut up, Mr. President,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Graves Brood in December of 1938 consists of:
> 
> **At Ilvermorny:**  
>  Galahad, age 11
> 
> **At Graves Manor, too young for Ilvermorny:**  
>  Olwen, age 8  
> Gawain, age 6  
> Elaine, one month shy of 4  
> Gareth, age 2  
> Lucan, age 2
> 
> Poor Headmaster Jauncey has no idea what's coming.


	10. The Woolworth Building, October 1930

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [LostGryphin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostGryphin/pseuds/LostGryphin) wanted to see more of Hughes and Renault. (Aka, the Canadian cursebreaker on loan to Graves' team in Chapter 6 of the previous round of timestamps.)
> 
> Pretty much directly follows up [this timestamp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248788/chapters/33347838) which you can [also read on tumblr if you prefer.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/161826965361/more-comment-fic-this-one-is-from-chapter-9)
> 
>  
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/176213547706/oh-monday-i-think-the-company-i-work-for-has)

_The Woolworth Building, October 1930_

 

There were probably more terrifying sights than Win Hughes sidling up and smiling, but in the heat of the moment, Sebastien found himself completely unable to think of a single one.

“Hey, New Guy,” she said.

Still. The proper forms had to be observed. 

“What do you want, Hughes?”

Hughes’ toothy grin went distinctively waheela-like and terrifying. “I thought you and me could have some fun,” she said.

“Auror Hughes, are you propositioning me at work?” Sebastien asked, faux-scandalized. “How delicious. I love it. Take me to a supply closet and ravish me.”

“I can do better than a supply closet, New Guy,” Win informed him. “And I wasn’t talking about _that_ kind of fun.”

“Pity,” Sebastien said, with genuine regret. Win looked like she’d be fun in bed. “What sort of fun _were_ you talking about, then?”

“I thought maybe you and me could remind the fucksticks from Alphabet Soup about MACUSA’s policy on upsetting Credence Graves.”

MACUSA’s policy on upsetting Credence Graves was actually pretty simple, and could be summed up in exactly one word: don’t.

Having met the man, Sebastien could understand why the entire American wizarding government had developed that particular policy in the first place. It wasn’t just because Graves was a scary motherfucker who would rip anyone who upset his adorable husband to shreds. Nor was it because Credence was one of those genuinely nice, kind-hearted people who would go out of his way to help you. No, it was because Credence was fucking _terrifying_ when he wanted to be. Sebastien had seen actual U.S. Senators flee at the mere _sight_ of Credence.

They fled from Tina, too, although Sebastien suspected that had less to do with Tina’s overall terrifying competence and was based purely on the fact that Tina was unstoppable once she really got started.

Sebastien felt his own mouth stretch into a waheela grin to match Hughes’. “Fun indeed,” he purred. “It would be my genuine pleasure.”

Win smirked. “I thought you’d say that.”

 

*

 

Tina punched him in the arm. “You asshole!” she yelled. “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me along!”

“So pretty,” Sebastien sighed. “And so violent.”

Tina punched him again. “My looks have nothing to do with this!” she declared. “Credence is _my_ little brother. Mine and Queenie’s. You should have included me.”

“You should have included both of us,” Queenie corrected.

Sebastien eyed her warily. Queenie was less prone to punching than Tina was, but that didn’t mean she was any less dangerous than her sister.

“Untwist your panties,” Hughes advised.

Sebastien took a prudent step out of the line of fire. He adored Win, he really did, but he had no desire to get killed because she was too crazy to recognize how much danger she’d just put herself in.

“I beg your pardon?” Queenie asked, her voice as cold as a Saskatoon winter.

“I _know_ the two of you are Palug’s big sisters,” Win told them. “Everybody does. You’re the obvious suspects. Now you can say you had nothing to do with this.”

“Oh,” said Sebastien. “Were we supposed to be subtle? You didn’t tell me we were supposed to be subtle.”

Hughes narrowed her eyes. “What did you do, New Guy?”

Director Graves appeared in the door of the conference room they were hiding in. “Renault!” he barked. “Hughes! Get your asses in my office _now.”_

“I was not subtle,” Sebastien said.

Director Graves snorted. “You really fucking weren’t. You practically signed your work.”

“Seriously?” asked Hughes.

“I’m an artist,” Sebastien told her. “It’s what we do.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, New Guy,” Win said.

“No,” Director Graves said. “I’m going to fucking kill _both_ of you.”

“Well, shit,” said Sebastien.


	11. The New York Ghost, May 1932

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the incredible [st00pz,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) who wanted to know what Credence had done in the past to scare the reporters of the _Ghost_ away from their usual petty rumor-mongering. 
> 
> Outsider POV, because I love outside POV on the Graves'.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/173717583026/having-just-worked-my-way-through-the-possible)

_The New York Ghost, May 1932_

 

A wave of pure magic swept through HQ, startling Liam so badly he almost knocked his typewriter from his desk. He looked up, eyes wide. “What the hell was that?”

“Not what,” Jim Morris told him grimly. “Who.”

Jim Morris had worked at the _Ghost_ for over a decade. To hear him tell it, he’d seen and heard it all and hadn’t been impressed by any of it, but something about whoever was making the walls shake made him nervous.

Liam didn’t blame him. Anyone powerful enough to shake the fucking walls scared the shit out of him, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it, either.

“Ignore him,” Adrienne Gallagher advised, loud enough for the wizard in the reception area to hear her. “He’ll go away eventually.”

Liam glanced at the wizard in reception. He’d clearly heard Adrienne, just as she’d meant him to, jaw tightening minutely at the insult. His dark hair was unfashionably long, part of it pulled back away from his face in a loose ponytail. There was something about him that put Liam in mind of his Gran’s stories about the fae -- a touch of the old blood, she called it. It wasn’t as common here in America as it was in the old country, where his Gran and his Ma and Da were born, but it was there if you knew where to look.

Right now, it was waiting patiently in reception, scaring poor Mary to bits.

Not for the first time, Liam wondered if Adrienne was actually crazy. She was Donaldson’s golden girl and had been for years and years. That didn’t seem like an easy position to be in, much less to keep, but Adrienne had fought for it tooth and nail against all comers.

“Who is that?” Stacia ventured. Stacia had been a junior reporter for a little bit longer than Liam had. He was grateful she’d been the one to ask the question.

“No one you need to concern yourself with,” said Adrienne.

“Credence Graves,” said Jim.

“Graves,” blurted Stacia.

“As in, the Graves’ of MACUSA?” Liam asked.

“He’s Director Graves’ broodmare,” Adrienne said, her voice still pitched to carry.

“Jesus,” said Liam. He did not think it was just his imagination that made the walls shake with Credence Graves’ fury.

Adrienne went beyond mere crazy, he thought. She was absolutely barking mad.

“Ignore him,” Adrienne repeated. “Donaldson’s orders. No good comes of dealing with a Graves.”

Liam suspected no good came of ignoring one, either. He’d heard stories about Percival Graves. They all had. The man sounded like a right bastard, but he’d been MACUSA’s Shield for over twenty years. At least he was a bastard who could be aimed at their enemies.

He glanced over at Credence Graves. Mr. Graves looked like he’d stand there patiently waiting all day if he had to.

Liam frowned. Mr. Graves was tall and slender, his fine suit cut to hide the swell of his belly. He reminded Liam of his cousin Sarah, who was near six months gone with her first child.

_He’s Director Graves’ broodmare,_ Adrienne’s voice reminded him.

Liam had been a lad at Ilvermorny when Director Graves had defeated the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, but even he had heard of Grindelwald’s infamous Second Captive. The papers had talked of little else for weeks; the story had seemed terribly romantic, as far as the girls of Thunderbird were concerned. Probably the girls from the other three Houses, too. Director Graves had apparently fallen deeply in love with the Second Captive, and married him not long after Grindelwald’s death. There was a bit of nonsense over the fact that the Second Captive had been near eight months gone with child when they wed, but Liam knew plenty of witches who’d borne children less than nine months from their wedding days. He didn’t see why everyone made it sound so sordid.

Liam had never seen a wizard on the increase before. The androgenesis spells were fiendishly complex, and it took immense power to maintain them.

Still. His Ma had raised him to be polite to witches in the family way. “Thirty hours I was, bringing you into the world, my lad,” she used to tell him. “And thirty-four for your brother. If you boys think I went through all that to raise mannerless little hellions, I’ll drown the pair of you myself.”

Liam stood up, heading for the reception area. Poor Mary probably needed a bit of back-up anyway.

“What are you doing?” Adrienne hissed, getting up to follow him. She clawed at Liam’s arm and spun him around.

“I’m being polite,” Liam retorted, shaking his arm free.

“Didn’t you hear me?” asked Adrienne. “Donaldson gave orders to ignore both Graves’ whenever they show their faces here.”

“Aye, because _that’s_ a brilliant idea,” Liam said, a touch of his parents accent bleeding into his voice. Normally, he tried to sound as American as possible -- Irishmen still weren’t well thought of, even in the wizarding part of the world -- but sometimes he couldn’t help it. “He’s old blood, or haven’t you noticed?”

“Old blood?” she repeated, confused.

“Fae,” explained Liam.

“Leave the kid alone, Adrienne,” Jim called. “He’s just another superstitious mick.”

Liam ground his teeth. _Never you mind,_ his Ma’s voice reminded him from memory. _Arseholes speak in farts, and they’re not worth listening to._ At the time, the vulgarity made him giggle. Now the truth of it just made him tired.

He turned and walked away from the bullpen.

Mr. Graves watched him, dark eyes thoughtful.

“Would you like to sit down, Mr. Graves?” Liam asked, as politely as he knew how. “I’d be happy to fetch you a more comfortable chair, if you’d like. Maybe a pillow?”

Mr. Graves’ mouth quirked in amusement. “You haven’t been around very many pregnant wizards, have you? We’re not fragile.”

Liam shrugged. “My Ma says childbearing’s hard work, and anyone working that hard deserves a bit of cosseting. I know better than to argue with my Ma, sir.”

“She sounds like a wise woman,” Mr. Graves agreed.

“Thank you, sir. She’ll be pleased to know you think so.”

“You should probably go,” Mr. Graves said kindly. “Donaldson won’t like it if he catches you talking to me.”

Liam resisted the urge to fidget nervously. Donaldson didn’t scare him half as much as this polite, pregnant wizard did. Mr. Graves was obviously powerful, if he could carry a child and still have enough magic leftover to make the walls shake with it.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Graves, but why are you here?” he asked.

Mr. Graves’ eyes lit up as he caught sight of someone over Liam’s shoulder, fierce and cold. “I’m here for him,” he said, indicating Donaldson.

Donaldson scowled at him. “What the fuck do you want?” he demanded.

“Language,” Mr. Graves reproached, stalking towards Donaldson. The desks were shaking now, knick knacks clattering to the floor in his wake. “I want a word, Mr. Donaldson,” he said.

“No,” Donaldson said. “I’m busy.”

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. At least now Liam knew where Adrienne got it from. Donaldson clearly led by example.

“I think you’ve got a minute for this,” said Mr. Graves. Liam never saw him touch his wand, but somehow he managed to freeze Donaldson in place. “Listen to me, John Donaldson, and listen well. My husband might be inclined to ignore your petty rumour mongering, but I will not.”

“The people have a right to know the truth,” Donaldson blustered.

“And who decides what the truth is?” Mr. Graves countered. “You? I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you.”

“Is that a threat?” Adrienne called.

Mr. Graves speared her with a glance. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Bullies make threats,” she said mockingly. “A Graves makes promises.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, we do.” He turned back to Donaldson, his expression cold enough to drop the temperature around him several degrees. “The next time you try and hurt my family with your filthy rumour mongering, I promise you this: I will ask my husband to purchase the _Ghost_ for me as a gift.” One hand went to his belly, protective. “Percival does so love to dote on me. He will throw money at your shareholders until they _beg_ you to sell and you will. And I will take my new toy and reduce your printing presses to slag. I will reduce this building to rubble, and then I will set fire to it. And when I am done, I will rebuild. I will modernize. And I will make sure that _my_ reporters are trained to actually report the truth, rather than some convenient fiction just to boost sales. I will obliterate your legacy and no one will even remember your name.”

Donaldson’s mouth worked silently, making him look like a particularly unattractive salmon.

He wasn’t very good under pressure, Liam thought. That was mild, given that he’d crossed one of the old blood. Mr. Graves had decided to be merciful. The fae in his Gran’s stories would’ve reduced the building to rubble with Donaldson and all the rest of the staff inside of it.

“Leave my family alone,” Mr. Graves said. He smiled, and the walls stopped shaking. The heavy, terrifying feel of his magic vanished as he turned and headed for the door.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Liam breathed.

Donaldson pointed at him. “Fired!” he shouted.

Liam blinked. “What?”

“You -- you disobeyed my orders! You’re fired!”

Mr. Graves turned back, expression thunderous. “You petty --”

“It’s alright,” Liam blurted. “I wasn’t a very good reporter, anyway. I’ll just get my things and go.” He grabbed his coat and hat and the pen with ever-replenishing ink his parents had bought him when he’d been hired. The rest of his personal effects weren’t worth bothering with.

“If you’re going to fire him, you owe him his wages,” Mr. Graves said.

Donaldson opened his mouth.

“Legally,” Mr. Graves added.

Donaldson shut his mouth and scowled. He reached into his pockets and drew out a handful of gold dragots, slapping them into Liam’s hand.

One dark eyebrow went up, eloquent in its disdain. “You’re firing the poor boy with no notice and no references,” Mr. Graves chided. “Surely you can afford a bit more than _that_ for his trouble. He’ll need something to live off of while he’s job hunting.”

“Like Graves won’t hire him immediately just to spite me,” Donaldson sneered.

The other eyebrow went up. Liam really didn’t think that was a good sign.

Donaldson slapped a few more gold dragots into Liam’s hand. Liam tried not to boggle at them; he’d never held so much money at once before.

Mr. Graves nodded, to show that he was satisfied. He turned around again and headed for the front door.

Liam followed, mostly because he wasn’t sure what else to do.

Mr. Graves waited until he’d gotten out the door to turn and smile at him. “I’m sorry about that,” he said apologetically. “I didn’t mean for you to get caught in the crossfire.”

“I don’t mind,” Liam said, surprised to find he meant it.

Mr. Graves considered him. Liam held his breath, hoping he wouldn’t be found wanting. Gran said the fae were capricious -- who could say that their descendents weren’t, too?

“You should come over for dinner,” Mr. Graves said. “I’m sure we can sort out a new career for you. Percival will have some ideas.”

MACUSA’s Shield would have ideas. About _him._ His Ma wouldn’t believe it. Hell, Liam barely believed it.

“Aye,” he said. “That’d be kind of you.”


	12. St. Brigid's Hospital, April 1928

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it has been forever. Sorry guys. 
> 
> The glorious [st00pz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) wanted to know if we were ever going to meet Angelica Summersea, the wife of one of Graves' Senior Aurors and defacto head of the Aurors Spouses Network. So I thought I'd write that.
> 
> This takes place in between the last two chapters of Improbable, after Grindelwald is dealt with and everyone is transferred to St. Brigid's for the inevitable shouting/clean-up.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/176507685346/behold-comment-fic-the-amazing-st00pz-wanted)

_St. Brigid's Hospital, April 1928_

 

Injured Aurors tended to wind up in one of three places at St. Brigid’s Hospital. They were trained to Apparate directly to the Emergency Room, where they could be triaged and treated appropriately. After that, they were generally taken to Spell Damage or the Trauma ward; there was no middle ground. Any injury that could be treated as minor invariably would, regardless of whether or not the injury actually qualified as minor. The Aurors Spouses network found it incredibly frustrating. So did the Healers and nurses at St. Brigid’s, although their description of that particular behavioral quirk generally included stronger language than “frustrating.”

Angelica Apparated directly to the Trauma ward, heading towards the family room. The Aurors Spouses Network used it as a rallying point. Some things were easier to bear if you had company; waiting to find out if your husband was going to live was one of them.

They were supposed to be safe, Angelica thought, despairing. After today, all of this -- Grindelwald, the ICW delegation, the prospect of war -- all of this was supposed to be _over._ The ICW had taken custody of Grindelwald; he was their problem now. He wasn’t supposed to be able to hurt anyone after this, much less her husband. They were all supposed to be _safe._

There was no such thing as safe, though. Not for Aurors.

Angelica paused just outside the family room. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then opened the door.

For a second, everything seemed normal. Less panicked than she’d expected, given that they were dealing with the single most dangerous Dark Wizard that the world had ever seen, but normal for the Aurors Spouses Network. Small groups of people were clustered together throughout the room, taking comfort from each others presence. Anything that could possibly be transfigured into a chair already had been, and there still weren’t enough to go around. The low murmur of voices stopped as soon as she opened the door, everyone turning anxiously towards her in case she was a Healer or a nurse with news of their loved ones.

“Mama!”

Charlotte scrambled off the floor and practically flew into Angelica’s arms. Angelica opened her arms and caught her, stunned by the sight of her baby. How had Charlotte gotten here before her? She was supposed to be at Ilvermorny.

It was Saturday, she realized. Charlotte was supposed to be training with the Bluebird today.

Marie Leveau, she thought. Charlotte was too young for this. It was bad enough to grow up knowing your father might not come home, but to be here, on the frontlines, witnessing what had been done first hand --

“Hush, baby,” she crooned, projecting calm she didn’t feel. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be just fine, don’t you worry.”

Charlotte buried her face against Angelica’s shoulder. For a second, she clung to Angelica the way she used to when she was a little girl, and then she pulled away. Charlotte squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, red-rimmed eyes meeting Angelica’s.

Angelica’s heart hurt. Her baby wasn’t a little girl anymore. She was nearly a woman grown, and one Angelica could be proud of raising.

“Come sit down, Mama,” Charlotte said, leading Angelica back to where she’d been sitting. Angelica recognized Edith McDowell and Dorothy Collins, but not the wizard sitting between them.

“Mr. Graves,” Charlotte said politely. “This is my Mama, Angelica Summersea.”

The wizard rose carefully to his feet, one hand going to the small of his back to offset the weight of the child in his belly. “Mrs. Summersea,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Mr. Graves, Angelica thought. She recognized him now. The _Ghost_ and _Moment_ had both run his photograph. He was Percival’s young fiancé. She couldn’t remember his name right now.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Mr. Graves,” she said automatically. “I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself before this. I meant to, but…” She shrugged. She had meant to. As the ranking Auror’s spouse, it was her responsibility to welcome new spouses into the Network. But between reassuring the existing spouses in the network that Grindelwald was no threat to their loved ones and trying to make sure that John remembered to do normal human things like eat and sleep so the stress didn’t make him come apart at the seams, she hadn’t had time to ask John where Percival had hidden the boy.

“Credence, please,” he said, watching her with worried dark eyes.

“Angelica,” she replied. “Is Percival…?”

He shook his head. “I’ve no idea. He was injured, dueling Grindelwald, but I don’t know how badly.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry I don’t know more about your husband’s condition, either. I didn’t even know he’d been injured when I arrived.”

“The Bluebird’s looking after Dad,” Charlotte murmured.

“He’ll be fine, then,” Angelica told her, suppressing the immediate flare of worry. Trauma was Aelinor’s domain, and she’d always taken a special interest in Percival’s Aurors. Just because the Bluebird was looking after Johnny didn’t mean he’d been hurt badly enough to warrant it, even if he had been in a car crash.

Why the _hell_ had no one thought to test those damn cars for crashes with each other? They were warded to hell in back for collisions with nearly everything else. Angelica knew for a fact that you could drive one into a wall at top speed and walk away just fine. Why had no one ever checked whether or not the protection spells would hold if the cars collided?

Angelica shoved the anger and the panic down. Neither emotion had any place in a hospital.

A calloused hand gripped hers, comforting and warm. “The Bluebird’s the best there is,” Credence Graves murmured quietly, as if she were the one who was new to the agony of waiting. “She’ll take good care of your husband.”

Angelica squeezed back. Credence Graves faked confidence very well, but she could read the lines of tension behind his carefully neutral expression. He needed the comfort more than she did. He was so very young, she thought. Little more than a child himself, for all that he was carrying one.

She’d been the same age when she’d married John. Funny, how twenty years could pass in the blink of an eye.

“She’ll take good care of yours, too,” she told Credence.

It was nothing more than the truth. Aelinor might very well turn to necromancy if Percival died on her table, if only for the pleasure of killing him again herself. The Bluebird took it personally when one of hers was injured.

“Careful, duck,” Edith told Charlotte. “It’ll be your name they speak like a talisman someday soon.”

Charlotte twisted her hands in her skirts. “I hope I’m worthy of it,” she said. “I want to _help._ Things like this -- that’s why I want to be a Healer.”

Edith patted her shoulder. “You will, dearheart, don’t you worry.”

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking after my son,” Credence said.

“Not even the Bluebird?” Charlotte asked.

“Not even the Bluebird,” he confirmed.

Charlotte smiled, equal parts shy and delighted. “I’d like that,” she said.

“Me too,” Credence confessed.

Angelica wondered whether or not Charlotte had just replaced her harmless crush on Alex Collins with one on Credence Graves. It didn’t really matter either way -- both men were happily married, or as good as. And at least Charlotte’s taste in men ran towards handsome and kind rather than handsome and cruel or handsome and useless.

Angelica cast a quick _tempus_ to check the time. It had been roughly an hour since she’d been notified that John had been hurt, which meant that it had been closer to two since he’d been brought in. That was time enough for a diagnosis and preliminary treatment.

“I believe I’ll go see if I can’t find some answers,” Angelica announced. “Would anyone else --?”

“Merlin, yes,” Edith muttered, handing Angelica a list of everyone whose spouse had been injured.

“What are you going to do?” Credence asked.

“I’m going to see if I can’t find out how everyone’s doing,” Angelica answered. “You can come with me, if you like,” she added impulsively. “You might as well see how it’s done. Both of you,” she added, looking at Dorothy. Dorothy was _her_ protege, after all. Dorothy would need to know how this was done sooner or later. So would Credence.

Dorothy and Credence both beamed at her.

“Thank you,” Dorothy said.

“That would be lovely,” Credence added.


	13. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, February 1951

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting back into the swing of things. So! This is originally from chapter 9 of the previous version of Timestamps, written for the delightful ebbster, who wanted to know which parent Jauncey preferred dealing with when he had to discuss the various misadventures of the Graves Brood. (The answer is Graves. The answer is always going to be Graves. Graves is one of the Twelve. Jauncey knows how he thinks, and to a certain extent how he's going to react. Graves might be terrifying, but he's a known entity. Credence, on the other hand, is terrifying and _unstoppable_ and Jauncey leaves handling him to Graves.)
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/177539622606/so-its-been-awhile-does-anyone-have-any-idea)

_Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, February 1951_

 

“Sir,” Gareth said.

“We can explain everything,” Lucan added.

Jauncey looked down his nose at them. “Can you,” he said, repressive. The twins were more brick dust and dirt than boy, at this point. A thick layer of gray dust covered them from head to toe.

They looked like statues. At some point, Jauncey would find the irony of that amusing, but he suspected that day was at least two decades off. Maybe three.

“Yes?” Lucan asked.

Gareth considered that. “Probably?”

Jauncey very deliberately refused to look around the room, keeping the twins pinned in place with a look. Two of Ilvermorny’s security statues had been reduced to gravel and dust -- he didn’t even want to think about _how_ that had happened yet -- but not before they’d inflicted a considerable amount of damage to the lower dueling range.

“Do either of you require medical attention?” he asked. Gareth had the beginnings of a spectacular black eye. Half his face was bloody from a scratch along his hairline, leaving dark streaks through the grime on his face. Lucan had one of Gareth’s arms slung around his shoulders. Jauncey honestly couldn’t tell which of them was holding the other one up. The way Lucan was holding his right arm worried him, though. He suspected it was broken.

“No, sir,” Lucan said immediately.

“We’re fine, sir,” said Gareth.

Jauncey raised both his eyebrows at them. “Really.”

“Er,” said Gareth.

“Well,” said Lucan.

“Maybe a little?” Gareth asked.

“Bandages would be nice,” said Lucan, with a look at Gareth’s head.

“And maybe a splint and some Skele-Gro,” said Gareth, gesturing towards Lucan’s arm.

Definitely broken, then.

“Right,” said Jauncey. “Let’s get you both taken care of.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, trailing behind him like ducklings.

“Sir?” Lucan asked, when they’d nearly reached the infirmary. Jauncey looked down at him. “Are you going to tell Galahad about this?”

Gareth winced. “He’ll be insufferable,” he predicted.

_“So_ many lectures.”

“And Sam will just give us the disappointed face.”

“I hate the disappointed face.”

“And Ollie won’t be any better,” Gareth added glumly. “She hates it when we upset Galahad and Sam.”

“She’s going to kill us,” Lucan concluded.

“Boys,” Jauncey said patiently. “You activated and destroyed two of Ilvermorny’s security statues and wrecked the lower dueling range. Your older siblings are the least of your problems. _I am calling your parents.”_

 

*

 

“I really thought dealing with the junior Aurors and their shenanigans had prepared me for having children,” Graves said, sounding equal parts baffled and resigned. “I was very wrong about that, as it turns out.”

Jauncey rather liked Graves. He always had, even when he’d only known the man by his reputation. He liked Graves a lot better now, despite the frequent headaches his offspring provided. Graves had excellent taste in liquor, and he was generous about sharing it. That sort of thing went a long way in smoothing out parent-teacher conferences.

“Your junior Aurors come to you as adults,” Jauncey pointed out.

Graves snorted. “No they fucking don’t,” he muttered. “I swear they get younger every year.”

“They don’t,” Jauncey replied. “You’re just getting older.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Graves said, entirely without heat.

“No, thank you,” Jauncey said, snagging the bottle and refilling his glass. He was just drunk enough to find Gareth and Lucan’s misadventures with the security statues mildly aggravating, which was a pleasant change from his earlier hysteria. “On the one hand, I suppose your boys ought to be commended for improving on your childhood misadventures.” A thought occurred to him. “You didn’t _tell_ them how to activate the statues, did you?”

“Merlin and Morgana, no! That part was all Seraphina, honestly. She’s always had a gift for that sort of spellwork. I was just there for back-up.”

Jauncey gave Graves the look he generally reserved for the Graves Brood and their misadventures, repressive and plainly disbelieving. It proved just as effective on Graves as it did his children.

“Well,” Graves allowed. “It might’ve been my idea to see how long we’d last in a duel against them. We were working on casting in tandem, you see, and a practical exercise seemed necessary.”

Merlin save him from Graves’ and their ideas, Jauncey thought.

“You were _eleven,”_ Jauncey reminded him, because he’d heard the full version of that particular misadventure from Silas Hunter. “Why the hell didn’t you try dueling with an older student, first?”

“None of them would take us seriously,” Graves grumbled. “After awhile, we figured we’d test ourselves against an expert. It seemed like the best way to learn.”

“Right,” Jauncey said. He was horrifically, hilariously grateful he was over a decade Graves’ senior and had never had to deal with the man as a precocious child. He suspected Graves and Picquery had driven a lot of well-meaning and utterly overwhelmed prefects and professors to drink. He couldn’t imagine trying to deal with Graves’ raw talent and power and sense of righteousness without a healthy dose of Credence Graves’ kindness and common sense to temper it. Some things didn’t bear thinking on.

“I’m going to have to suspend them,” he said, circling back to the matter of the twins.

“I suspected as much. In school or at home?”

“In school,” Jauncey said. “They confined the damage to the lower dueling range, and no one else was hurt. And, unlike the rest of your brood, the twins generally keep their mischief to themselves.”

“Thank magic for that,” Graves agreed. “And at least this time you’re not out a professor.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Graves. If I have to replace one more damn professor because of your children, I’m going to start billing you for them.”

“That’s probably fair,” Graves allowed. “Credence might object, though.”

Jauncey winced. If he were feeling suicidal, he _might_ consider trying to take on Percival Graves, provided he had the funding for an army and had picked his moment to die very, very carefully. He wouldn’t have tried to challenge Credence Graves for all the money and magic in the world.

“Shut up and pass me that bottle.”


	14. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, November 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful LostGryphin mentioned that they could see one of the Graves children challenging someone with: "I could fight you wordless, wandless, blindfolded and with my hands tied behind my back." The line was honestly too much fun to pass up on.
> 
> Also, the Graves Brood totally would.
> 
> Peter Collins (younger brother of Galahad's Sam, second child of Alex Collins and Dorothy) has his own methods of managing wayward Graves'.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/178027495591/chapter-10-of-the-second-volume-of-possible-verse)

_Ilvermorny Massachusetts, November 1943_

 

Outraged cursing drew Peter’s attention away from his research. He sighed and carefully marked his place in his book, resigned to not getting anything else done for the rest of the lunch period. He looked around, trying to find the source of the ruckus, and was entirely unsurprised to find Olwen Graves facing down a boy from Thunderbird who was at least twice her size.

He looked around, hoping to find either of their older siblings or a professor somewhere in the general vicinity. Galahad and Sammy were nowhere to be found, and neither was a professor. Peter suspected that was deliberate, but it was a coin toss as to whether or not Quincy or Ollie had engineered things that way.

He sighed again. He knew his mom and Ollie’s papa had high hopes that he and Ollie might hit it off the way Galahad and Sammy had, and he hadn’t figured out how to disabuse either of them of the notion, yet. If he avoided the issue for long enough, Ollie would likely do it for him, he supposed.

Still. Future spouse or not, he owed it to Ollie to watch her back.

Ugh. Graves’ were so much work, he thought, dropping out of the tree he’d been hiding in and ambling towards whatever trouble Ollie was undoubtedly starting.

“Just you try it,” Ollie told Quincy Adams. “I can beat you wandless, wordless, blindfolded and with _both_ hands tied behind my back.”

She probably could, too, Peter mused. Still, it wasn’t polite of her to rub it in Quincy’s face like that. Her papa would undoubtedly have a few things to say about her manners. And her father would have a few things to say about her overconfidence.

“I’d like to see you try, you little bitch,” Quincy shot back. “I’ll trounce you and you know it.”

Ollie bared her teeth. “Try me,” she invited.

Peter didn’t like the way Quincy was looking at Ollie. Quincy was fifteen, and he’d started looking at girls like they were lesser life forms there to serve his needs -- even the undersized and obnoxious ones, like Ollie. Quincy’s friend Stefan had a similar expression, but his held a meaner edge. He’d hurt Ollie just to prove he could.

Galahad would’ve gone in swinging, outraged that anyone would dare threaten his sister. Sam would’ve charmed them or distracted them, ever the peacemaker. Peter just grabbed Ollie and slung her over his shoulder, walking away from Quincy and Stefan without a word.

“Peter!” she howled, squirming like a niffler in a sack. “Let me go!” Tiny fists pummeled at his back, more to demonstrate her displeasure than actually designed to hurt. Ollie could’ve dropped him, if she’d really wanted to. Uncle Percival had seen to that.

“You interrupted my research,” he told her.

“No one asked you to get involved,” Ollie shot back. “I was doing just fine on my own.”

Peter doubted that, but he knew better than to say so. “I was researching the animagus transformation,” he continued, as if Ollie hadn’t spoken. “Professor Preston gave me special permission to check _The Animal Within_ out from the library. I’ve only got it for a week. That’s nowhere near enough time to take proper notes.”

“I don’t care,” Ollie snarled. She did stop wriggling like a mad thing, though. “Wait. The animagus transformation?”

“I thought you’d approve, it being wandless, wordless magic and all.”

“Hmph,” said Ollie. “I bet you’d be a bear. Big and lazy.”

“But powerful,” Peter pointed out. “You ought to be nice to me, you know. Else I’ll just sit on you to make you behave once I’m a bear.”

“I could learn too,” Ollie said.

“Probably,” Peter said. She was a Graves. She had the skill and the drive for it. “But I’m not giving you my notes.”


	15. Graves Manor, December 1929

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the glorious [st00pz,](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) [WHO MADE ART](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174900146871/st00pz-i-just-want-to-draw-them-with-the-shield) that you should all go see, because it is glorious.
> 
> Credence makes Graves a shield charm. This is a direct follow up to [this timestamp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248788/chapters/33994911) in which three quarters of Graves' team demonstrates a distinctive lack of self-preservation instincts and wind up in St. Brigid's Hospital.
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174587694916/st00pz-terriblelifechoices-st00pz-grr)

_Graves Manor, December 1929_

 

“We married idiots,” Credence said.

“We did,” agreed Dorothy, cuddling against Credence’s side for warmth.

Credence tried to pat her hair reassuringly, but he’d had rather more of Angelica’s _my Auror is a fucking idiot_ calming tea than he meant to, and his hand-eye coordination was currently nonexistent. His sense of coordination in general was currently nonexistent, but he’d always been a lightweight. Angelica’s _my Auror is a fucking idiot_ calming tea was only _technically_ tea -- although Newt had argued strongly against that particular point of nomenclature -- in that it was loose leaf Earl Grey, but she brewed it in vodka rather than hot water. It worked, though. Credence felt very calm. And uncoordinated. And grateful that they’d picked the guest bedroom closest to the big bathroom. Being drunk was a lot like being pregnant; he needed to use the bathroom a lot.

“Should’ve waited for you,” Dorothy mumbled. She was even more of a lightweight than he was, but she was cuddly and affectionate, which Credence appreciated. “You’re nice and you’re not a suicidal idiot. We’d make beautiful babies.”

“Hm,” Credence said, imagining a baby with Dorothy’s strawberry blonde curls and adorable nose and his own dark eyes. They _would_ make pretty babies, although he wasn’t sure how they would manage to go about making them. Dorothy had rather the wrong anatomy for his tastes. “You don’t have a cock, though.”

“I don’t need one. You’ve got a cock,” Dorothy said, with adorable drunken confusion. “Unless you’d rather carry them?”

Credence shrugged, briefly dislodging Dorothy. He loved Dorothy, but he was pretty sure trying to have sex would her would be like the time Win dared Seraphina and Percival to kiss on the lips -- awkward and ultimately impossible. Dorothy was his sister. He didn’t want to have sex with her anymore than Percival wanted to have sex with Seraphina.

“We’ll just have to see if we get pretty grandbabies instead,” he decided, because Gally and Sammy were virtually inseparable. If they didn’t swear a blood oath as siblings like Percival and Seraphina, they would probably get married.

“Good plan,” said Dorothy. She sighed. “They’re just going to get hurt again, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Credence said, too drunk to be miserable about it. It was inevitable.

 _That’s the job,_ Percival’s voice reminded him from memory.

“I hate it,” Dorothy said, burying her face against his chest.

Credence stroked her hair until she fell asleep. “Me too,” he confessed.

 

*

 

Being an Auror was dangerous. Every spouse in the Aurors Spouses Network knew that: lived with the fear of what might happen, of getting _that_ pigeon from St. Brigid’s -- the one that said your Auror had been injured.

Or worse, the one that said your Auror wasn’t coming home at all.

It was, Dorothy assured Credence, less dangerous now that Percival was Director of Magical Security than it had been in the past, because Percival looked out for his people. Credence found that less of a comfort than Dorothy did.

Percival kept everyone safe, often at his own expense. God knew Percival’s team tried to return the favor, but the only man Credence had ever met who could actually keep up with Percival when Percival was being a reckless idiot was Theseus, and that was only because Theseus was just as bad as Percival was.

Credence sighed. He wished there were something he could do to keep Percival safe. He wished there was something he could do to keep all of his loved ones safe. What good was power if you couldn’t _use_ it to protect the people you loved?

Credence’s hands curled into fists, unthinking. He forced himself to relax, spreading his hands apart and froze.

It had been so long since he’d taken his shield charm off that he’d almost forgotten he was wearing it. He was reasonably certain that everyone thought it was part of his bridegift, worn for sentimental reasons rather than practical ones.

Maybe there was something he could do to keep Percival safe after all.

 

*

 

Everyone said that shield charms were incredibly dangerous to make. They were magic and will and love manifested as a physical object. Very few wizards had the strength _or_ the will for it, to say nothing of the skill and or power. Those that did were rarely willing to risk losing their magic in the process.

 _You don’t attempt to make something like that unless you love the person you’re giving it to so much that losing them would be worse than losing your magic,_ Percival had said once.

had lived without magic once. He could do so again, as long as he had Percival and Galahad. He would survive losing his magic. He did not know how to survive losing Percival.

The spell to make a shield charm was a relatively simple one despite the risks involved. Credence walked out into the back garden of Graves Manor, feeling the wards hum comfortingly in the background. He bundled himself into Percival’s heavy greatcoat, breathing in Percival’s scent as he used his wand to clear snow from the ground.

Percival’s scent meant safety and home. So did the familiar hum of the wards. He was safe and protected and loved.

Credence knelt on the cleared patch of lawn, head bowed in prayer. He had not prayed in ages, but the words still flowed easily from his lips. It was funny, he thought, that magic and prayer should use the same language. The only Latin he knew was from prayers or magic; Ma had preached to her ministry in English, because that’s what the good people of New York spoke on the street, but everyone prayed in Latin. Credence knew what the words _meant_ but not how to translate them, just like everyone else -- even the wizards.

 _“Pater noster, qui es in caelis,”_ he whispered, taking comfort in the familiar liturgy. He let himself get a bit louder, until he was speaking at a normal volume. There was no one else in the garden to hear him. _“Sed libera nos a Malo. Amen.”_

Deliver us from evil, he thought, and drew his wand. Credence pressed the tip of it against his heart and let his magic well up like a fountain. _“Armor amore,”_ he said clearly, gasping against the unexpected hurt.

Ah, God, it hurt. Not like the Cruciatus or giving birth to Galahad, but it still _hurt_ as though his magic -- his _soul_ \-- were being wrenched away. Credence gritted his teeth, shoving more magic into the spell. He would bear much worse on Percival’s behalf.

Take it, he thought. Take all of it. Just keep Percival safe.

He wasn’t sure who he was addressing. God, maybe. Or magic itself. Maybe they were both the same thing.

Credence felt the spell take shape and pulled his wand away from his heart, casting _finite incantatem_ on reflex and muscle memory alone. He held out a hand and felt the shield charm fall into it, pitching forward onto the cold ground and trying not to sob with mingled pain and relief and gratitude.

It worked. He still had magic, and it _worked._

Credence brushed the tears away with dirty hands, watching some fall on the thick silver band of Percival’s shield charm. He brought it to his lips and kissed it. Let it take his tears, his breath, his blood. That was the way of old magic -- the magic from Percival’s stories, long gone but not forgotten.

He got to his feet and staggered back into the house. He wondered how Percival had managed this. Percival had still been recovering when he’d made Credence’s shield charm, physically weak but magically powerful. He’d gone out into the backyard of their safe house while Credence slumbered in their bed, exhausted and sated from Percival’s attentions and he’d returned with Credence’s shield charm, giddy and triumphant and dead on his feet.

Credence mostly felt triumphant and dead on his feet. He collapsed into bed, still wearing Percival’s greatcoat. Kicking off his shoes was almost more effort than it was worth, but he managed it somehow.

He opened his palm and stared at Percival’s shield charm. It was a silver bracelet, made of heavy silver links on either side of a thick silver band half an inch wide and two inches long. MACUSA’s eagle was stamped onto the left side of the band, MACUSA’s ever watchful eye had been stamped into the right. Between the two familiar symbols magic had written _“ego dilecto meo et dilectus meus mihi”_ in Credence’s own handwriting, but he didn’t recognize the phrase.

He could look it up after a nap, he decided. Then he’d go fetch Galahad and Percival from Dindrane’s and make sure that Percival was _safe._

 

* 

 

Credence tucked Gally into bed, bending down to press a kiss to the side of Gally’s head. Galahad didn’t stir, all his usual energy exhausted by the excitement of spending the night and most of the following day with his cousin. Gally would be heartbroken when Lance went to Ilvermorny next year; he adored Lance, who shamelessly exploited the advantage of not being away at school all the time to make himself Gally’s favorite cousin.

He brushed his fingers over the little glass wampus cat that sat on Gally’s nightstand. _Lumos morphos,_ he thought, activating the Night Light spell inside of it. Credence closed Galahad’s bedroom door behind him and went to find his husband.

Percival was sitting up in their bed, the little silver reading glasses he pretended that he didn’t need while he was at work perched on the tip of his nose. For once, he was actually wearing a full pajama set, the shirt neatly buttoned all the way down.

Since Percival usually slept in pajama pants and nothing else, Credence regarded this as more of a red flag than a concession to modesty. Percival ran warm. He preferred sleeping without a shirt even in the heart of winter, particularly if they were sleeping together. Credence still couldn’t tell if it was personal preference or vanity -- Credence liked the way Percival looked without his shirt and Percival knew it. He was shameless about it, too.

Percival set his book aside as Credence slipped out of his clothes. It was one of his No-Maj detective stories, which Percival enjoyed because they bore very little resemblance to his actual job. He was particularly fond of Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, but even _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ wasn’t enough to distract him from the sight of Credence slowly and deliberately removing his clothes and not putting a single stitch on to replace them.

“This is … unexpected,” Percival managed, hands coming up automatically to steady Credence’s hips as Credence sat in his lap. “I thought you were angry with me.”

“I am angry with you,” Credence said. “Because you’re an idiot and you got yourself hurt doing something stupid. But I love you, and I missed you while you were at Dindrane’s.” He worked quickly to unbutton Percival’s shirt, shoving it down off his shoulders when Percival leaned forward with a wince.

“Oh,” he said, taking in the damage.

The worst part of it, he thought, was that he’d seen worse. This wasn’t the first time Percival had been injured in the line of duty, but God willing it would be the last. At least this time Percival was only bruised, his broken ribs reknit with Skele-Gro and without any fresh scars.

Credence leaned forward and kissed him, desperate and fierce. He wanted to reassert his claim, to make sure that Percival knew who he belonged to -- who and what he had to come home to.

“My Percival,” he growled. “I am yours and you are mine and you are not allowed to die, do you hear me? You’re not.”

“I won’t,” Percival promised, his voice gone low and dark.

“Good,” said Credence, squirming in Percival’s lap. He felt suddenly desperate to see Percival naked -- to reassure himself that Percival was alive and whole the best way he knew. He pressed kisses down Percival’s chest, squirming backwards so he could help Percival drag his pajama pants off his hips. He got them shoved down just enough that he could take hold of Percival’s cock.

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” groaned Percival. “Credence --”

Credence mouthed slowly over Percival’s cock, breathing in the delicious male scent of him. He liked taking his time with this, reducing Percival to slow desperate monosyllables. He left kisses in his wake, interspersing them with teasing strokes of his hand.

“Love this,” Credence murmured, licking the precum away. “Love you,” he added. “I can’t wait to feel you inside of me.”

Percival huffed out an incredulous laugh. “Are you talking to me or my cock?”

“Both,” Credence decided, returning to the task at hand. He flicked at Percival’s frenulum with his tongue and then swallowed Percival’s cock down as best he could.

Percival swore, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Credence’s head while the other fisted at their bedsheets. “Oh, Credence, lovely -- _fuck!_ Do that again, please,” he begged.

Credence did, settling into a rhythm they both enjoyed, rubbing his cock against their bed to drag his own pleasure a little bit higher. He loved getting Percival beneath him, helpless and adoring. He could come just from this, but that wasn’t want he wanted.

Percival’s hand tightened on the back of his head in warning. Credence drew away with a plaintive whine, leaning forward to kiss the tip of Percival’s cock before crawling up the bed again.

“How do you want this?” Percival asked, reaching for Credence’s cock. He used the evidence of Credence’s desire for slick.

Credence made an embarrassingly high, pleased sound when Percival put his hand on him. “I want you,” he said, pressing the words into Percival’s mouth like a promise. “In any way that won’t hurt you.”

“Alright then,” Percival said, dragging Credence back into his lap. “I hope you don’t mind doing all the work, then.”

“Never,” Credence promised. He shivered, nearly slipping over the edge into ecstasy at the feeling of Percival’s magic inside of him, the pleasing slickness left in its wake.

Percival’s cock would feel even better.

Credence rose up on his knees, fumbling to get Percival lined up as he sank back down in slow increments. He savored the feeling of Percival’s cock stretching him open, the heavy fullness and the rightness of it.

“Love you,” he said, beginning to move. “Love you, love you, love you. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“Promise,” Percival growled, with a roll of his hips that made Credence’s whole body shudder with pleasure. “Not while you have need of me.”

“Good,” said Credence. Words got significantly harder after that, lost in the spiral of pleasure. He ground down as Percival snapped his hips up, hard enough that it had to hurt Percival’s bruises -- hard enough that Credence would feel it tomorrow and delight in every twinge and ache. He thought he shouted something blasphemous when Percival put a hand on his cock, his grip tight and slick, putting a slight twist at the end just to drive Credence wild. It pushed Credence over the edge, crying out helplessly.

Percival shoved Credence onto his back on their bed, throwing Credence’s legs over his shoulders and sliding back into him while Credence was breathless with the aftershocks. He managed a scant handful of thrusts, chasing his own release and spilling inside of Credence with a low groan. “Fuck. I love you,” Percival said, pressing a kiss to the inside of Credence’s left thigh as he carefully lowered Credence’s legs off of his shoulders. He eased out of Credence, fumbling for his abandoned shirt to wipe them both clean.

“Love you too,” Credence said, wrapping his arms around Percival’s neck and dragging Percival down on top of him once more. They traded slow kisses as their breathing returned to normal. “I made you something,” he announced. It was the same thing Percival had told him when he’d given him his shield charm. Credence couldn’t resist the urge to turn the tables a little.

Percival blinked at him. He pulled away, pressing his wand hand to Credence’s belly. “Are you --?”

“I --” Shit. That wasn’t how Credence expected this to go. “Not, not yet. I mean, I want another baby, but the Bluebird said I should talk to you when I asked her about the spells, and we haven’t -- Unless you did?”

“Unless I what?” Percival frowned, connecting the dots. “No, I wouldn’t. Not without asking permission. And talking. Talking is good.”

Credence had his doubts about that, given how spectacularly they were failing to have this conversation. He supposed this was his punishment for trying to be cheeky. “But you want more children?”

“Yes,” said Percival.

Credence resisted the urge to cast the androgenesis spells right this second. “That’s good,” he said inanely.

He was going to blame the sex on his spectacular inability to converse with his own husband.

“Yeah,” said Percival, equally inane.

Maybe they could both blame the sex.

“I made you a shield charm,” Credence said, rolling back to his side of the bed and clawing open his nightstand. He pulled out the shield charm and fastened it around Percival’s left wrist, where he would carry a real shield if he’d been a knight out of one of his stories.

“You what,” said Percival flatly.

Credence poked him in the chest, right over the bruise that looked the worst. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned Percival. “I know how dangerous making one is, and you have no room to talk. And don’t you _dare_ tell me that I can bear losing you anymore than you could bear losing me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Percival said immediately.

Credence gave him the skeptical look that particular nonsense deserved.

Percival looked down at his wrist. “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” he murmured.

Of course he knew Latin, Credence thought, amused.

It was, he admitted, something he might have chosen, had he known what it meant. Magic was a wonderous thing sometimes.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” Percival confessed. “Anyone else in your position would tell me to step down as Director of Magical Security, but you -- you accept that it’s who I am. What I am. I don’t deserve you. I really don’t.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Credence protested. “Neither would any other spouse in the Network.”

“Some of them do,” said Percival. He hesitated, looking down at his shield charm. “My mother did. She hated that my father kept putting himself in harm’s way.”

“I’m not especially fond of it myself,” Credence said.

“Neither am I, really,” said Percival.

“But you do what needs to be done,” Credence said gently. “I know. I love that about you.” He tilted his head, needing the comfort of being kissed.

Percival kissed him, slow and breathless and devouring. “I’ll always come back to you,” he promised.

Credence grasped his wrist, letting the silver of his own shield charm click against Percival’s. “My Percival,” he said. “My beloved.”

“Yes,” said Percival, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percival's shield charm is based on [ID bracelets that were popular in the 1940's.](https://vintagedancer.com/vintage/vintage-mens-jewelry/) He's a decade and a half ahead of the fashion, but he's Graves. He does what he wants.
> 
> If you feel the need to try making Angelica's _my Auror is a fucking idiot_ calming tea, [this recipe for Earl Grey vodka is actually pretty tasty.](https://kickingcooking.wordpress.com/2012/12/07/earl-grey-infused-vodka/) Although using alcohol as a magic calming potion is a terrible idea, and you guys should definitely not do that.


	16. The Woolworth Building, February 1943

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I had something Halloween themed written. But this feels relevant to current events, so here we go.
> 
> Written for the delightful redwitchrising on tumblr, who wanted to see Credence in Extremely Competent and Cutthroat Politician mode.
> 
> Ten years after the repeal of Rappaport's Law, Credence is still having the same damn arguments about why it was necessary to do so in the first place.
> 
>  
> 
> [Originally posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174873499131/its-the-quality-not-the-quantity-of-fic-that)

_The Woolworth Building, February 1943_

 

It was, perhaps, a little mean to inflict Dag on unsuspecting politicians. At eight months old, Dagonet’s cuteness was surpassed only by his ability to charm anyone he came into contact with.

Credence refused to feel bad about that. He would take any advantage he could get.

Also, Dag had just hit the clingy phase, and would dramatically scream and cry if left in the care of anyone who wasn’t Credence, Percival or Liam. Credence really hoped Dag grew out of that soon.

Senator Bromwell actually did a double take when he saw Dagonet strapped to Credence’s chest.

Credence met his gaze calmly. He wasn’t going to start a fight with the senator -- that was more Tina’s thing than his -- but he’d damn well finish one, if that was what the senator wanted.

The senator did.

“Mr. Graves, forgive me. You seem to have forgotten that the daycare is downstairs,” Bromwell said, all solicitous concern.

“Have I,” Credence said, disinclined to continue the conversation.

Bromwell didn’t take the hint. “You can’t possibly be serious,” he said. “Bringing a baby to a committee meeting is ridiculous.”

“Senator Bromwell, if you find Dagonet’s presence objectionable, you are more than welcome to recuse yourself,” Credence told him. “I, however, will be attending the meeting.”

“With a baby strapped to your chest.”

“Would you prefer it if he were strapped to yours? I guarantee neither of you would much care for the experience; Dag’s feeling a bit wary of strangers at the moment.”

“You can’t honestly expect us to take you seriously while you’re parading a baby around!” Bromwell said.

“Seraphina Picquery signed laws into effect with my oldest two children sitting on her lap,” Credence said, using his most exquisitely reasonable tone of voice. He’d found that it tended to have a maddening effect on some people, particularly if they were already being unreasonable. “The very same laws we’re here to discuss, as it so happens. There’s precedent for it, if that’s your concern.”

“Credence,” Congressman Rosewater said repressively. “Stop baiting Bromwell. And you,” he said to Bromwell. “Stop taking the bait.”

Credence inclined his head. “Apologies, Victor.”

Bromwell grunted something and sat down again.

Credence followed suit, settling carefully into his chair to avoid jostling Dag.

Congressional meetings, Seraphina had told him once, were really just so much street theater. Except rather than amuse the audience, the performers primarily tried to impress themselves.

She was right about that. They were like street theater. Boring street theater, though. No one in their right mind would ever pay to see _this_ performance.

Credence watched the performers. He was less interested in the performance -- he already knew what most of them were going to say -- but it was always good to get a read on whether or not they really _believed_ all of the ridiculous garbage they were spouting, or if they were simply misinformed.

Bromwell believed. He talked about No-Maj’s like Ma used to preach about witches -- as if the threat of them were very real, and might erupt into all-out war at any moment.

Rosewater didn’t. Victor Rosewater was a moderate, through and through. He tended to vote on the conservative side of things, but when it came right down to it, all he really wanted was what was best for their people.

Congresswoman McGilliguddy believed, too, but she was on his side. Rumor had it she had presidential aspirations, just like her many times great grandmother. Credence believed them. McGilliguddy had the drive for it.

“For magic’s sake, man,” she said, exasperated. “The kneazle is well and truly out of the bag and there’s no getting it back in. Trying to slap Rappaport’s Law back on like a bandage isn’t going to work.”

“I didn’t take you for a No-Maj lover,” Bromwell said. The tone of his voice made it clear that being a No-Maj lover was on par with being a blood traitor.

Enough was enough.

“And just what,” Credence said, taking care to stay quiet so he wouldn’t yell, “is wrong with being a No-Maj lover?”

“Ah,” said Bromwell, some miniscule hint of self-preservation kicking in at last. “Nothing, of course.”

“And No-Maj’s?” Credence persisted. “You don’t seem to think very highly of them, either.”

“There’s nothing wrong with No-Maj’s,” Bromwell added hastily. “Some of my best friends are No-Maj’s.”

“I doubt that,” said Credence. “But one of mine is.” He smiled.

Bromwell visibly recoiled at the mention of Jacob. Or, more likely, at the reminder of what had happened to the last wizard who thought Jacob Kowalski had no place in the wizarding world. Credence’s wrath had been nothing compared to Queenie’s.

“If you have nothing worthwhile to say, Senator, then _please_ be quiet and cede the floor to those of us who do,” Credence said, still quiet. “I, for one, am getting tired of your bigoted rhetoric.”

Bromwell’s jowly face went very red. Credence cast a silent muffling charm on Dag. The yelling portion of the street theater was about to start soon.

“I am trying to protect our people!” Bromwell snapped.

“From what?” Credence demanded. “From the No-Maj’s? They’re _people._ People just like you and me, who live and love and just want to go about their daily lives. Most of them have no idea we exist, and in accordance with the International Statute of Secrecy, most of them will _continue_ to have no idea we exist. No one is suggesting we start slinging spells around to amuse the No-Maj’s.”

He was so very tired of having this argument. Rappaport’s Law had been repealed a decade ago, and people _still_ kept trying to bring it back. And for what, he wondered. So they could live in government-sanctioned fear and tell themselves their hate was justified?

“We can’t go back, Senator. The only thing we can do is go forward. If you truly want to protect our people then _make a better world for them to live in.”_

“WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M TRYING TO DO?” Bromwell bellowed back. “Don’t you _dare_ take that sanctimonious tone with me, you little No-Maj loving prick. _You’re_ the one our people need to be protected from! You and your politics,” he sneered. “You’re no better than Grindelwald. Magic knows you _sound_ like him, carrying on about fear and using it to justify your agenda.”

Credence froze. If he moved wrong -- if he _breathed_ wrong -- he was going to lose his temper, and he didn’t want to do that. Not in front of Dag. Dagonet was too young to remember anything, but Credence still wanted to set a good example for his son.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, even softer than before. He wasn’t doing it on purpose this time. Credence got quiet when he was angry -- quiet and cold.

“I think,” Rosewater said carefully, well acquainted with Credence’s temper, “that we’re might need to take a brief recess.”

“I’m sorry, Victor,” Credence interrupted. “But I believe the senator has something to say. I’d like him to say it to my face.”

Bromwell said nothing. Bullies were like that. It was easy for them to be brave when they were standing in a crowd.

“No? Very well. Then I have some things I’d like to say in return.” Credence smiled. It was a smaller, more subtle version of Percival’s wampus cat hunting smile, but the predatory intent remained the same. “What you are trying to do, Senator, is justify inflicting the same culture of fear you grew up in on the children who will be our future. On _my_ children.” He cupped the back of Dag’s head, protective.

“Grindelwald wanted our people to rule over the No-Maj’s. If you’re going to accuse me of using his rhetoric, you ought to read a few of the transcripts of his speeches, first. Anything less just reveals your ignorance and undermines the point you’re trying to make.”

“You’re still no better,” growled Bromwell. “You think your power and your name give you the right to dictate law to us. Shall we bow to the Dark Lord Graves, instead?”

“Senator Bromwell, please stop presuming to know my mind better than I do,” Credence said. “It’s tiresome and insulting.” He went on before the Senator could find something to say to that. “For the record, I don’t think my power or my name give me the right to dictate anything, but I am willing to use both to fight for what I believe in. I have spent the past decade working on the No-Maj reforms not -- as you so charmingly put it -- because I am a No-Maj lover, but because our previous legislature _hurt our people._ All of them, not just the No-Maj born ones.”

Credence met Senator Bromwell’s gaze and held it. “Wizarding America normalized fear of the No-Maj. And for what? Because they don’t have magic? Because they’re _different?_ You and I both know what the word for that is. Any system that justifies bigotry or hate is corrupt and cannot stand. As politicians, we cannot _let_ them stand. We have to do better.

“If you don’t agree with what my version of better is, that’s fine. That’s why we have committee meetings. But if you have nothing but fear and watered down hate to contribute to the conversation, then recuse yourself and let someone who is willing to do the work take your place.”

Rosewater eyed him warily. When Credence remained silent for an uncomfortably long moment, he cleared his throat and said, “I suggest we take that recess now.”

Credence smiled. “Yes,” he murmured. “Let’s do that.”


	17. Ilvermorny Massachusetts, July 1938

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have somehow managed to start posting things out of order, so I am very confused about what I've posted and what I haven't. Go me.
> 
> Written for the incredible [female_overlord_3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/female_overlord_3/pseuds/female_overlord_3) who wanted to know if Credence had ever been to Ilvermorny.
> 
> I suspect Credence and Graves have both spent _a lot_ of time at Ilvermorny, given the rate the Graves Brood goes through professors. To say nothing of the rest of their brood's shenanigans.
> 
> This is the first visit. Poor Jauncey has no idea what's coming.
> 
> [Cross-posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/179609012651/more-comment-fic-because-why-not)

_Ilvermorny, Massachusetts, July 1938_

“Oh my God,” Credence breathed, looking up.

Ilvermorny Castle had been built on one of the rocky outcrops of Mount Graylock, standing tall against a background of endless blue sky. The tall stone spires rose defiantly up over the surrounding trees, as if to say _look at what we can do. Look at what magic and man make possible._

What better place for wizarding children to learn how to do the impossible, he thought.

Percival tipped his head back and studied the castle, a faint smile curving his lips up. “Yeah,” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” Credence said.

“It’s even better inside,” promised Percival.

Credence looked around. “How exactly do we get inside?” he asked. They were at least a two miles out, by his estimation. He didn’t mind walking, but he was wondering how the students reached the castle.

Percival smiled and held out his hand. “I’ll show you,” he promised.

Credence laced his fingers with Percival’s, walking hand in hand with his husband for twenty feet or so before he felt the wards. They were ancient and powerful -- stronger than the ones on Graves Manor, even -- and they felt as rooted and vast as the mountain they were standing on.

“Credence?”

“The wards,” Credence explained, realizing that he’d stopped the instant they’d passed through them.

“Ah,” said Percival. “What do they feel like?”

“Ancient,” Credence said. “Strong. Like the mountains.” He liked the steadiness of them.

If Jacob Kowalski had magic, he thought, surely his magic would feel just like this. But softer, in that uniquely Jacob way of his.

“Ah,” Percival said again. He pulled a blue velvet pouch out of his pocket and opened it, revealing cranberry colored silk lining and the faint gleam of gold inside. He tipped the contents out into his palm. Two shining threefold knots shone in the sunlight. Percival gestured for Credence to take one.

Credence did, half-expecting to feel the twisting lurch of a Portkey, but nothing happened.

“Ilvermorny students wear these in honor of Isolt Sayre,” Percival explained. “They use them to transport the new students into the castle.”

“Like a Portkey? How is it activated?”

Percival looked embarrassed. “Usually by singing the school song.”

Credence waited. Percival had a lovely singing voice.

_“I_ don’t know the song,” he pointed out, when Percival stayed silent.

Percival sighed. “You will,” he said ominously. “Fine. Just the last bit usually works for visitors and alumni, thank magic.

_“Where’er we roam, where’er we roam, our one true home, our one and own is Ilvermorny dear!”_ he sang.

The gold flared bright, just for a second, and then they were both standing in the entrance hall of Ilvermorny Castle. It was the smoothest transition Credence had ever felt, far easier than a Portkey or Apparition. “How did --” he began.

“Trade secret, I’m afraid,” a cheerful voice rang out. “You were about to ask about the Portkeys, weren’t you?” A man Percival’s age stood on the wooden balcony that went all the way around the next level of the entrance hall. He descended the stairs leading down to the entryway with quick steps, shoes clattering on the polished hardwood.

“Is it a Portkey?” asked Credence.

“Oh, of sorts, of sorts,” the man said. Up close, he looked older than Credence had first guessed. There were fine lines around his mouth and eyes, and the silver had nearly overtaken his hair, well hidden amongst all the blond. He stuck a hand out for Credence to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graves. Evan Jauncey. I’m the Headmaster.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Professor Jauncey,” said Credence. “Thank you for letting us visit.”

Headmaster Jauncey smiled. “It’s always good to meet a prospective parent -- especially one who’s never been. Please, allow me to show you around.”

“Oh, we don’t want to take you away from your work,” Credence hastened to assure him. “I’m sure Percival can show me around.”

“Perish the thought,” said the headmaster. “My sister would have words for me if I were rude to you.”

Credence blinked.

“His sister is Louise Jauncey,” Percival explained.

That explained a lot. The Jauncey’s were descended from one of the Twelve, just like Percival and the children. Louise Jauncey was a no-nonsense woman in her eighties. She’d supported him and Tina on the No-Maj reforms unreservedly from the start, and Credence still, to this day, wasn’t sure why she’d done it.

“Also,” said Professor Jauncey, “I’m avoiding my director of finance, so feel free to drag this out for as long as you like.”

Percival winced. “Fontaine?”

“Fontaine,” Professor Jauncey confirmed.

Credence stared at both of them, wondering _which_ Fontaine they found so intimidating. He knew about two dozen of them, and they were all a little … well. _Intense_ seemed a bit unkind, but it was accurate.

Credence didn’t mind intense. He wouldn’t have married Percival if he had.

“Right,” said Percival. “We’d love the full tour.”


	18. Hamunaptra, Egypt, Spring 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Leona29 wanted to know what the Graves Brood was doing around Harry Potter's time. And guys, I have so many thoughts about this. Because in removing Grindelwald, we lose the impact of his actions on the wizarding world as a whole. I went back and forth on whether or not that would still lead to Voldemort, because the wizarding world has been canonically, shall we say, slow to change. As a society.
> 
> I have even less of a clue what that would do to Dumbledore, who now has all the answers he was always afraid of (even if he doesn’t believe them completely) and hasn’t been viewed as a last resort/savior and maybe wouldn’t be inclined to raise child soldiers/martyrs. I have a half-written ficbit in which young Tom Riddle doesn’t get sent back to the orphanage, but across the pond to foster with the Graves’ for a summer, since he’s only a year older than Galahad, and then I remembered that I haven’t read the later Harry Potter books in years, and sixteen year old Tom Riddle was already kind of a sociopath.
> 
> Anyway, this assumes that Voldemort still rose to power, and things go similarly for Harry as in canon.
> 
> This is not actually about Harry, though. This is about Bill.
> 
> Because CURSEBREAKERS.
> 
> [Cross-posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/179815801616/i-have-somehow-managed-to-post-these-out-of-order)

_Hamunaptra, Egypt, Spring 1994_

 

Bill was worried about Ron and Harry.

He worried about all of his younger siblings at one point or another. Bill wasn’t a worrier by nature -- that was more Percy’s thing than his -- but as the eldest, worrying about his siblings was what he _did,_ and right now he was worried about Ron and Harry. He couldn’t worry about Ron and _not_ worry about Harry, and he hadn’t even really _met_ Harry yet. But Mum and Dad had clearly adopted him, and the infrequent letters he got from his younger brothers were full of Harry stories, so Bill felt justified in worrying about Harry.

God. Poor Harry. The kid was thirteen and he’d faced down two separate incarnations of the Dark Lord.

War was coming, whether the Ministry wanted to admit to it or not. He Who Must Not Be Named had merely been dormant after his defeat, not dead like everyone had hoped.

If the last three years were any indicator, then tiny, undersized Harry Potter would be on the frontlines of that war when it arrived, and Bill’s littlest brother would be standing right beside him.

Bill didn’t know what to do about that. He wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about that. Part of him wanted to wrap them both up in one of Mum’s afghans and lock them in Ron’s room at the Burrow, but he didn’t think either of them would appreciate that.

Hermione would break them out in under a week, so it was a moot point. Bill hadn’t met Hermione either, but by all accounts she was pretty much unstoppable when she got going.

Maybe he could wrap her up in one of Mum’s afghans too. He couldn’t lock her in Ron’s room with the boys, though, Mum would pitch a fit and Hermione would probably murder them both. He could lock her in Ginny’s room, though. He’d always wanted another little sister.

Bill made a face. Ron would probably tolerate being locked up. Merlin knew he’d been on the wrong side of the twins and their pranks often enough to have developed a tolerance for a lot of ridiculous brotherly shenanigans. But there was no way in hell Ginny would tolerate it for longer than five minutes. She’d turn into a one-girl riot.

Being the oldest was awful. It was all the worry of having children without actually having children. 

Thanks, Mum and Dad.

Bill sighed.

“Alright there, Bill?” Professor Graves inquired, looking concerned.

Oh, hell, thought Bill. He was suddenly, stupidly grateful he was English and a redhead, and any blushing he might be doing right this second could be attributed to sunburn and not _complete and utter mortification._

He did not, no matter what anyone else thought, want to sleep with Gawain Graves. Gawain was older than his Dad, for god’s sake. But he’d pioneered or refined practically every modern cursebreaking technique there was, and Bill maybe had a tiny crush on his brain. It was an academic crush. Kind of like Charlie and Newt Scamander.

“Fine, sir,” Bill said.

One corner of Gawain’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “You sure about that? You’re staring at that drink like it insulted your mother. Which would be a pretty foolish thing to do, come to think of it.”

“Tell me about it,” said Bill. Gawain had actually met Mum and the rest of the family last summer. He’d charmed the hell out of both of Bill’s parents, and had somehow gotten the entirely accurate impression that Mum was terrifying even though Mum had never once used the Mum voice on him.

“Everything alright?” asked Gawain.

“It’s fine,” Bill said again.

Gawain waited.

Bill took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How much do you know about He Who Must Not Be Named?”

“That Dark Lord your lot had awhile back? A bit. Galahad keeps an eye on that sort of thing. My oldest brother,” he clarified, when Bill looked at him in confusion. “He’s MACUSA’s Head of MLE. He has a … professional interest in Dark Lords, I guess you’d call it.”

“Oh,” said Bill. “So you know about Harry Potter, then.”

“I’ve heard of him. The Boy Who Lived,” said Gawain. He shook his head. “Hell of a thing to saddle a kid with.”

“He’s my youngest brother’s best friend. Mum and Dad have pretty much adopted him,” Bill said. “He’s -- I’m worried he’s going to be on the frontlines if another war breaks out. Ron’s going to be right there with him.” He clenched his hands into fists. “I just want them to be _safe.”_

“Ah,” said Gawain. He frowned. “Isn’t your youngest brother thirteen?”

“Yeah.”

“How old’s the Potter kid?”

“Same age.”

“What the fuck,” said Gawain.

Bill stared at him. Gawain rarely swore. The worst Bill had ever heard him say before today was ‘hell,’ and that was only because a curse had taken his pinky finger off and he’d had to have it reattached.

“They’re kids!” Gawain said, indignant. “Hell, _you’re_ a kid. None of you have any place fighting a war, much less on the frontlines.”

Bill scowled at him. He was twenty-four, not a child.

Gawain ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, okay, that’s not going to stop any of you from picking up wands and fighting. I get that. Merlin and Morgana, do I ever.” He made the same gesture to ward off evil that the locals used. He grabbed another glass and the water pitcher, transfiguring the water into something that -- judging from the smell -- was definitely not water. “Want some?” he asked.

Bill shrugged and handed over his empty glass. The liquor was smooth and tasted like whiskey. Even transfigured, it was probably older and more expensive than anything Bill could afford to drink.

“If someone expects your little brother and his friend to fight, that’s fucked up,” Gawain said bluntly.

“I don’t think anyone _expects it,”_ said Bill, although he wasn’t honestly sure about that one. “It’s just -- He Who Must Not Be Named has gone after Harry twice already. Sort of. And if he’s not dead -- if he comes after Harry for real -- then I’m worried Ron’s going to get caught in the crossfire. Or that they’ll both get killed.”

Gawain took a drink and studied Bill for a long moment. Bill half expected Gawain to tell him he had nothing to worry about, or a reminder that distraction was one of those things that got cursebreakers killed. Instead, Gawain said, “You can’t keep them safe.” His voice was careful -- gentle, even. It was the same tone of voice he used to deliver bad news.

“I know that,” Bill said harshly. He told himself it was just the whiskey that made his voice rough and his eyes sting.

Gawain held up a hand. “Hear me out,” he said. “You can’t keep them safe. It’s impossible. But there _are_ things you can do to make them safer.”

Bill set his glass down. “I’m listening,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is the city from _The Mummy._


	19. Graves Manor, December 1941

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am no longer allowed to post things out of order. I keep finding timestamps that I think I've posted and haven't.
> 
> The fantastic [st00pz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/st00pz/pseuds/st00pz) wanted to know how Graves and Credence managed to accidentally cast the androgenesis spells, and how they figured it out.
> 
> [Cross-posted to tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/179574381411/it-has-been-an-embarrassingly-long-time-since-i)

_Graves Manor, December 1941_

 

“Are you alright, darling?” Graves asked.

Credence smiled at him, a little tiredly. Credence was tired a lot these days. Between the stress of wrangling the Congress and raising seven children -- five of whom were still too young for Ilvermorny -- Credence had plenty of reasons to be tired, but it was starting to worry Graves.

“I’m fine,” Credence said.

Graves sighed. Credence was always fine. He had the highest tolerance for pain of anyone Graves knew, and he hated to put anyone out, so he’d probably still say he was fine if someone broke both his legs and set him on fire. (The fact that Credence was a wizard and really would have been fine did not change Graves’ point, which was that Credence was an even more terrible patient than _he_ was. At least Graves went to the hospital. Credence would just pretend he was fine and that nothing was wrong until he keeled over. It was fucking terrifying.)

He reached out and took Credence’s right hand in his own, caressing Credence’s palm with his thumb. Even the worst of Credence’s scars had faded over time, but he still found himself lingering with worshipful attention over the places they’d been. After a moment, Graves raised Credence’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the center of Credence’s palm because Credence was his husband and he could.

Credence slid his hand out of Graves’, using it to cup Graves’ cheek. “I’m fine, love,” he said again. “Just tired, and my stomach’s a little upset. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I still worry,” Graves admitted.

“I know. And I love you for it.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Credence thought about it. “A backrub would be nice. And maybe some ginger tea?”

“Coming right up.”

 

*

 

They’d agreed, after Lyonesse, that they were done having kids. Seven children was enough for a proper legacy -- enough to satisfy Credence’s desire for a big family, even. And if Graves was being honest, he didn’t want to risk another pregnancy like the last one, which had seemed worse than the other five combined. Even being pregnant with the twins hadn’t been as bad, and Credence had spent most of that pregnancy exhausted and magically drained; the strain of sustaining two lives instead of one had sapped even Credence’s formidable reserves. And Graves could not -- _would not_ \-- put Credence through what he’d endured while he’d carried Lyo again, even if Credence would have borne it happily.

So it took Graves an embarrassingly long time to realize what was wrong with Credence. Or, not wrong, per say, but different.

He wasn’t entirely certain why Credence hadn’t mentioned it, though.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted another baby?” he asked, one arm curled protectively around his husband and their unborn babe. “I would have helped you cast the androgenesis spells.”

Credence sat up in bed, dislodging Graves’ arm. “What?”

“I wouldn’t have said no,” Graves told him. “Not if it was what you really wanted.” He didn’t know how to say no to Credence. And in the end, it wasn’t his body or his choice -- it was Credence’s.

“We agreed that we were done,” Credence said, looking at Graves like he thought Graves had gone out of his fucking mind.

“I thought we were,” agreed Graves.

“I didn’t --” Credence said. “What do you mean, _you would have helped?_ I’m not pregnant.”

Graves stared at him. “You’re not?”

“No!”

That seemed impossible, and Graves said so. “Are you sure?”

“Yes! I didn’t -- I wouldn’t just arbitrarily make a decision like that and not talk to you about it, Percival,” Credence said, not quite moved to sarcasm but rapidly approaching it.

“But --” Graves broke off, still staring. “Shit. Really?” Credence had been so tired, recently. And there’d been those cramps two weeks ago, which was right on schedule for the first trimester as his body made room for its new occupant. And Credence had switched to ginger tea instead of coffee in the mornings, because it settled his stomach, even though Credence adored sweet milky coffee almost as much as he adored their children. Not to mention how much more time Credence was spending in the bathroom these days.

“Yes, really!”

“Oh,” said Graves. “Er. Do you mind if I …?” He made a vague gesture at Credence’s belly, trying to indicate that he wanted to cast the medical diagnosis spell.

“Yes,” Credence said, grumpy now.

Graves fidgeted, wondering if he ought to apologize.

“Oh, go ahead,” Credence sighed. “You’re not going to relax until you do.”

“I believe you,” Graves told him.

“No,” Credence sighed. “Just get it over with, alright?”

Graves plucked his wand off the nightstand. _“Diagnoskein.”_

Credence glowed a faint Healer green, although only Graves could see it. It was brighter around his neck and shoulders -- Graves made a mental note to give Credence another backrub -- and at his midsection, the spell flaring bright blue with the life it found there.

“You’re pregnant,” Graves said, stunned.

“That isn’t funny, Percival.”

“I’m not trying to be funny,” Graves said. “You’re pregnant.”

Credence stared at him, fumbling for his own wand a second later. _“Diagnoskein,”_ he said, casting the spell on himself. Then, “What the fuck. I’m -- _what the fuck.”_

Graves met Credence’s wide, panicked eyes. “You didn’t cast the androgenesis spells,” he said, certain of it.

“Of course not! Did _you?”_

“No!” Graves said. “I would never do that without talking to you first. I didn’t--”

“What the fuck,” Credence said for a third time. “How could this happen?”

“I don’t know,” Graves said. Had someone else cast the spells on Credence? They couldn’t, could they? Credence had a shield charm. Of course, the shield charms weren’t foolproof, but Graves was reasonably confident that Credence’s would keep him safe from the blood magic Grindelwald had used.

Unless it was one of the other variants. Something less drastic -- something the shield charm might not consider a threat.

Why, though? There was no motive.

Part of Graves wanted to ask if Credence was _sure_ he hadn’t cast the androgenesis spells. The rest of him wanted to continue sleeping in his bed and not on the couch for the rest of what would probably be a very short life, once the women in his life got ahold of him.

“Oh my God,” Credence said. “I didn’t -- and you didn’t -- we should talk to Aelinor.”

“Now?” Graves asked, throwing back the covers.

Credence gave him the withering look he generally reserved for politicians who were being complete morons. “It’s eleven o’clock at night,” he pointed out. “Aelinor’s probably at home in bed with Bellamy.”

“So?” Graves would absolutely risk the combined wrath of the Bluebird and Bellamy for Credence.

“So we can go see them in the morning,” Credence said firmly. He frowned, clearly running through his calendar in his head. “Or not. I’ve got a meeting with the Subcommitee for No-Maj Born Public Works tomorrow. Maybe in the afternoon?”

“You can skip the fucking meeting,” Graves growled.

Credence set his jaw, stubborn. “I have been pregnant before, Percival. It didn’t make me infirm or any less unable to go about my work, and it certainly doesn’t render me an invalid now.”

“Yes, but we planned the others. Mostly.”

“It’s four more hours,” Credence pointed out.

“Try more like another twelve,” Graves said grumpily. He honestly had no idea which fucking subcommittee Credence was meeting with this time, but he knew how those meetings went. They started late, everyone dithered about shit that didn’t matter, and by the time the meeting was over about half a dozen more had been scheduled between various members of the exact same subcommittee, who for some fucking reason couldn’t be bothered to talk to each other during the actual meeting. It would be dinnertime before Credence managed to extricate himself. “I might as well just invite the Bluebird and Bellamy over for dinner.”

“Good idea,” said Credence. “Let’s do that instead.”

Some days, Graves really hated Credence’s ability to be calm and reasonable about absolutely fucking everything.

“Yes, dear,” he said, giving in to the inevitable.


	20. Graves Manor, February 1937

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the incredible [fantastik_obskurials](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fantastik_obskurials/pseuds/fantastik_obskurials) who read the Timestamp in which Graves gets distracted during sex, and had the following comment: _Ooooh Percival Graves you have so much making up to do (and I want to see it!)_
> 
> Directly after [this timestamp](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14248788/chapters/34262207) which you can also read [on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/172678725411/comment-fic-for-the-fantastic-dailandin-who)
> 
> [Cross-posted to tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/180392574311/happy-thanksgiving-guys-i-dont-have-any)

_Graves Manor, February 1937_

 

Percival kissed him, all slow burning heat and filthy promises. Credence still had his legs wrapped around Percival’s hips, trapping him in place, so Percival ground his cock against the place that had Credence seeing stars instead.

“Oh,” Credence gasped, arching into it. “Oh, fuck, that’s a good start.”

“Shh,” Percival murmured. “Let me take care of you, love. You wanted me to fuck all your frustrations out of you, didn’t you? And I just added more of them instead.” He paused to suck a possessive mark on Credence’s neck, high enough that it would be seen over Credence’s shirt collar unless he spelled it away. “Let me make it up to you.”

“Yes,” Credence said, clinging to Percival’s broad shoulders.

Percival chuckled. “You’re going to have to let me go so I can move, sweetheart.”

“I kind of like you right where you are,” Credence mused. He liked the feel of Percival inside of him, grinding in slow and _deep._

“Credence,” Percival said, reproachful. He mouthed kisses along Credence’s jawline and down the curve of his neck, pausing to nip at Credence’s left collarbone before kissing his way back up the other side.

“Oh, fine,” Credence said, letting go.

“Thank you,” Percival said, pulling out of him entirely.

“Percival, I swear to God --”

Percival shoved a pillow under Credence’s hips and crawled down their bed until he could put his mouth where Credence was red-rimmed and slick and open for him. He lapped across the opening, practically purring.

“Oh!” Credence shoved a fist in his mouth to stem the how much noise he was making.

Percival pulled his mouth away, making Credence whine in protest. “None of that, love,” he chided. “I want to hear you.” He bent his head again and resumed his task.

Credence didn’t have it in him to deny Percival something he wanted. “Please,” he managed, one coherent word in a monologue that consisted of nothing but pleasure-soaked vowels. “Oh, oh, oh, _fuck,_ please.”

“I’ve got you,” Percival said, easing two fingers in and licking in between and around them. His other hand was warm on Credence’s hip, steadying him while he squirmed with rising ecstasy. He crooked his fingers, sliding into the rhythm Credence liked best with the ease of long familiarity.

Percival kissed the inside of his right thigh, impossibly tender. “I’m going to make you come like this,” he promised, his fingers continuing their slow massage. “As many times as you can take. And then when you’re done, I’m going to worship your cock until you come like that, too. And if that’s not enough -- if there’s even the slightest bit of frustration left in you -- then I’m going to start. All. Over. Again.” He punctuated that last bit with a bit more pressure, driving Credence closer to the edge.

Credence felt his body clench, entirely unconsciously, driving Percival’s fingers right where he wanted them. His cock was leaking against his stomach -- there would be a godawful mess on sheets in the morning, if not for magic -- so swollen with blood it looked obscene. He was so close he was trembling with it, as if all his body needed was a tiny spark to make him burn. His vocabulary was almost entirely vowels now, but Percival didn’t need words to understand him.

“Let go, darling,” he growled. “I want to see you.”

That was all it took. Orgasm ripped through him, a conflagration sweeping through his nerves and burning him clean from the inside out. Credence might have shouted something, but he had no idea what. Not with Percival’s fingers milking him through it, making him burn again before the first fires had even gone out.

Credence keened when he came for the second time, the pleasure of it even more intense in the aftershocks of the first. His cock was still leaking against his stomach, untouched. Credence was grateful for that. If Percival touched him now, Credence might actually die of pleasure.

“Still with me?” Percival asked, pausing just for a moment.

It took Credence a second to realize that Percival was concerned; that Percival needed him to say something before he would finish what he’d started.

“Mm,” he said. Not a vowel, at least, but also not what Percival needed to hear. “Yes.”

“Still good?”

“Yes!”

“Good,” said Percival, massaging Credence’s insides once more. “So pretty,” he crooned. “You’re so pretty when you cry for me, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful, Credence. So perfect, like you were made just for me.”

Credence barely heard him. The words meant nothing to him; he was too caught up in a third burst of pleasure. This one dragged on for what felt like hours, until he was so strung out with pleasure that all he could do was tremble and sob breathlessly.

“Perfect,” Percival crooned. “So pretty and perfect. My Credence.” His other hand slid away from Credence’s hip, spelled slick as he wrapped it around Credence’s cock.

Credence screamed and came, every fiber of his being alive with pleasure. He was suffused with it, transcendent, a phoenix bursting into flame and leaving nothing but ashes in his wake.

When he could think again, Percival had gotten him cleaned up and had curled up around him, cuddling Credence to his chest. He’d tucked Credence into the softest blanket they owned, broad hands sweeping up and down Credence’s back, slow and comforting.

Credence pressed his face against Percival’s chest and let Percival anchor him. He drifted off to sleep like that, safe and loved.


	21. The Safe House, May 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the following comment on tumblr: _i absolutely ADORE your possible 'verse and was curious as to how credence & percival decided on their names (i had no idea galahad's middle name was credence!) because i'm only faintly familiar with arthurian myth but i know a lot of families that either just knew or hashed it out up until the birth._
> 
> [Cross-posted on tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/174965216986/i-absolutely-adore-your-possible-verse-and-was)

“I thought,” Credence said, using the quiet, cautious tone Graves used as a signal to pay very close attention to whatever Credence said next. A lifetime in Mary Lou Barebone’s dubious care had nearly erased Credence’s ability to ask for the things he wanted. He was slowly relearning how to ask for things, even if he couldn’t bring himself to say it was something he wanted. “I thought, maybe Galahad?”

It took Graves a second to realize what he meant.

They hadn’t talked about baby names. They probably ought to have before this, but at least they were talking about it now.

“Galahad,” Graves repeated, testing the name out.

Credence nodded. “He’s your legacy,” he said, rubbing at his belly. “Like the Galahad in your mother’s stories was Percival’s, after a fashion. He was the one who finished Percival’s quest,” he explained, at Graves’ puzzled look. The Galahad in his mother’s stories had been in no way Sir Percival’s son. “It’s not the same kind of legacy, but --”

“It makes sense,” said Graves.

“I thought that if our son is going to be your legacy, then he ought to have a proper name to go with it,” Credence finished.

“It’s a good name,” Graves told him. “I like it.” He smiled. “My mother would have loved it.”

“Oh,” said Credence. His smile was a small, delighted thing.

The urge to kiss him was overwhelming. Graves did not see any particular reason to ignore that particular impulse, so he leaned forward and tasted that smile for himself, kissing his husband until they were both breathless.

“Do you really like it?” Credence asked, lips red and swollen. “If there was something else you wanted to name him --”

“It’s perfect,” Graves interrupted firmly.

“Oh,” Credence said again. “Good.”


	22. The Woolworth Building, July 1944

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're getting two timestamps today, because the first one was short.
> 
> This one is from the throwaway line, _[Galahad] made a mental note to follow up on that with George, Dad’s current protege. George owed him a favor, after that thing with the murderous tomatoes last summer_ from the Timestamp in which the Graves Siblings go to war with Ilvermorny's Potions Master. Lost-Gryphin wanted to know more about George and the murderous tomatoes.
> 
>  
> 
> [Cross-posted here WITH ART BY ST00PZ AND IT IS AMAZING. GO LOOK AT IT RIGHT NOW.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/175131193316/st00pz-george-and-the-murderous-tomato-random)

_The Woolworth Building, July 1944_

 

“Hey, George, have you seen --” Galahad stopped short at the sight of Dad’s current protege. “What the hell happened to you?”

George Tanner was a stocky, ginger-haired wizard in his early twenties. He wore silver-rimmed glasses and could generously be described as ‘well-padded,’ which had a tendency to make people think that he was soft or slow or both.

George was neither, and he could punch like a piledriver. Galahad knew that from personal experience.

George was currently soaked head to toe in some unidentified viscous red liquid, not quite dark enough to be blood. There were fleshy bits here and there, and he smelled faintly metallic. It wasn’t the copper-iron tang of blood, it was more earthy. Vegetative, almost.

“Herbologists,” George growled. “Motherfucking herbologists!” He thumped the box on his desk for emphasis. Whatever was in the box thumped back. “You pipe down,” said George.

“Er,” said Galahad. He’d never seen George lose his temper before. MACUSA scuttlebutt said he _had_ one, but Galahad had never seen it.

“Sorry, Galahad,” said George, clearly remembering that he was Older And Should Set A Good Example.

Galahad resisted the urge to roll his eyes. George wasn’t _that_ much older than he was, and Galahad had plenty of role models.

“Seriously,” said Galahad. “What the hell happened?”

“A war over fucking tomatoes, if you can believe it,” said George. “Tomatoes!”

So _that’s_ what that scent was. Galahad felt stupid for not recognizing it sooner.

“Apparently,” George continued, clearly working himself up for a good rant, “someone has been pilfering Mr. Costa’s prize tomatoes. He has, in fact, reported this to the Auror division repeatedly, which hasn’t done any good, because we, as a division, are -- and I’m quoting him on this ‘a useless waste of taxpayer money’ because we refuse to set up round the clock surveillance on his fucking produce.”

“Ah,” said Galahad.

“And rather than, I don’t know, invest in a couple of wards to keep the tomato-thief out of his garden, Mr. Costa -- who fancies himself quite the herbologist -- decided to create _murderous tomatoes that fight back when you try to pick them._ Except he didn’t count on the fact that his murderous fucking tomatoes would be indiscriminate about their homicidal tendencies, _or_ that they could survive off the vine, and half the neighborhood got sent to St. Brigid’s when his tomato crop came in. Murderous. Tomatoes.”

“Um,” said Galahad.

“Join the Aurors,” George said mockingly. “Help people! Make a difference! FIGHT MURDEROUS TOMATOES.”

“George,” Galahad said urgently.

“What?”

“Your murderous tomatoes are escaping.”

“Shit!” yelled George. The tomatoes had eaten their way out of the cardboard box he’d put them in, and one was launching itself into the air at George’s face.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Galahad snapped his fingers, blasting the tomato into red pulp before it could hit George in the face. He wasn’t allowed his wand over the summer, but he was a Graves. He could get by without one.

The first tomato’s death seemed to galvanize the rest of them into action. Within seconds, the rest of them had broken free and were launching a full scale assault.

“Motherfucker!” said George, slipping on a bit of tomato pulp and going down hard.

Galahad swore and Stunned the rest of the tomatoes.

“Thanks,” George said, wiping tomato juice off his glasses.

“You’re welcome,” Galahad said, surveying the carnage. It looked like the kitchen had, the last time Uncle Jacob tried to teach the little ones how to cook.

Well, at least he had practice with that sort of mess. Galahad could _scourgify_ like nobody’s business.

“We are never speaking of this again,” said George.


	23. The Safe House, May 1927 & July 1927

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal headcanon for Graves is that he tends to go "zero to Tony Stark" when buying gifts for the people he cares about. He's one of those ridiculous rich people who has no idea what a proportionate response is, so he mostly goes overboard.
> 
> To that effect, I present to you: Romance, Percival Graves style.
> 
> Cross-posted to tumblr [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/180540720251/it-has-been-an-odd-day-and-i-saw-crimes-of) and [here](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/180644616726/i-am-trying-to-be-better-about-posting-comment)

_The Safe House, Late May 1927_

 

Credence stared at the small mountain of chocolates on the kitchen table and wondered whether or not a fit of mild hysteria would help.

Probably not.

Percival ran a hand through his hair, a bit self-consciously. “I may have gone a bit overboard,” he admitted.

Credence looked from the stack of chocolates to Percival and back again. The entirety of their kitchen table was covered in boxes or bags or baskets of chocolate piled nearly three feet high in some places.

“Maybe more than just a little,” he said faintly.

A year ago, he’d never even tasted chocolate, and now he was looking at more chocolate than one person could eat in a lifetime.

“Well,” Percival said.

Credence winced. Percival was using his _I am a reasonable person_ voice. Percival only used his _I am a reasonable person_ voice when he was trying to convince someone -- usually Credence, although Credence had heard him try it on Seraphina once or twice -- that whatever he’d done was, in fact, a reasonable thing to do and not _completely insane._

“I wanted to buy you chocolates, because you like chocolate,” explained Percival. “But then I realized that I didn’t know what your favorites were.”

Possibly, Credence thought, because _Credence_ didn’t know what his favorites were. He liked hot chocolate, and anything Jacob or Dorothy made with chocolate in it, but he didn’t have a favorite sweet.

“So I thought I’d just get a variety and we could find out,” Percival finished.

Credence transferred his incredulous stare from the chocolate mountain to his husband.

Percival’s mouth twitched.

“I believe I already mentioned that I may have gone a bit overboard,” Percival said.

“Percival. You didn’t know what my favorite chocolate was and you decided to buy me _all of them.”_

“Not all,” protested Percival.

“One of everything from, I’m guessing, every sweet shop in New York, magical or otherwise,” Credence translated, because he knew how Percival thought. ‘Go big or go home’ was practically the Graves family motto.

“Er,” said Percival.

_Shit,_ said Percival’s expression.

“I thought it would be romantic?” Percival said.

Credence started laughing helplessly. “I love you,” he said, wiping tears away from his eyes. “But you’re ridiculous.”

“You like that I’m ridiculous,” Percival pointed out, dragging him in for a kiss. “And it’s not like I’m ridiculous with anyone but you.”

“Well, tomorrow you can be ridiculous with everyone,” Credence said firmly. “Take some chocolates into work.”

“They’re your chocolates, though.”

“I can’t possibly eat that many chocolates,” Credence pointed out. “I’d be as big as a house.” He considered that last statement and amended it to, “Moreso than I already am,” because he _felt_ about as big as a house and just as unwieldy at the moment. He was very ready to be done being pregnant.

“You’re beautiful,” Percival said. “Kind and lovely and mine and beautiful.”

He said the words like it was nothing more than simple truth. He wasn’t just reassuring Credence because Credence felt exhausted and uncomfortable in his own skin at the moment. He meant it, every word.

Credence tilted his head up. Percival kissed him obligingly, and kept kissing him until they stumbled backwards into the kitchen table and knocked some of the chocolates over.

“Bedroom?” said Percival.

“Bring some chocolate.”

 

_The Safe House, July 1927_

In retrospect, Credence really should have seen this coming. He just hadn’t realized that the incident with the chocolates indicated a _pattern_ rather than an isolated event.

“Credence Graves?” the delivery witch for Phantasmagoria’s Florals inquired. She looked a little bit frazzled and more than a little bit homicidal, which Credence did not think was a good sign. Anyone whose livelihood depended on their ability to be nice to other people -- even when said other people were being complete asses -- was very good at _not_ looking frazzled or homicidal by necessity.

“That’s me,” he said cautiously.

The delivery witch narrowed her eyes at him. “Right,” she said. “So _you’re_ to blame,” she muttered, low enough that Credence could pretend not to hear it.

Oh, God, what had Percival done now?

“I’m sorry,” he said, somewhat preemptively. Or, judging from the delivery witch’s expression, somewhat belatedly.

The delivery witch actually snarled at him, doing a credible impression of an angry predator. (Or Percival before coffee, which was pretty much the same thing, really.)

“Your husband is crazy!” she exploded.

“Er,” said Credence.

“He wanted bouquets of every flower we had in the shop!” she wailed. “Every! Flower! Do you know how many different fucking kinds of flowers we carry? BECAUSE I DO.”

“Oh, dear,” said Credence. “Let me get you some tea. Or some brandy.” Brandy was supposed to be good for calming people’s nerves, wasn’t it?

“I don’t want anything that tastes like a flower,” she said. “I work in a fucking flower shop. I’m sick of flowers.” She paused, and then conceded, “Brandy would be lovely.”

“Right,” said Credence, ushering her into the safe house. “Brandy it is.”

The entire living room was filled with flowers. So was the hallway. And most of the kitchen. The stairs were lined with them, one on each side on every step going all the way up. Vase after vase of flowers, beautifully arranged and beribboned, each with a small card explaining what they were and what they meant.

“Some _idiot_ made the mistake of telling him that you could send messages with flowers,” the delivery witch explained, a little tipsy. “And then he wanted to know what every single one meant, and he made us pull the ones that meant something rude.”

“Oh, dear,” Credence said again.

“He’d already paid for them though,” she continued, morose. “We would’ve just thrown them out, but then that _madman_ decided that he wanted us to deliver them anyway, and he made us wait while he thought up people to send them to. We’ll be delivering them all week at this rate.”

“I’m so sorry,” Credence said, but then a thought had occurred to him. “Did he send anything to John Donaldson at the _New York Ghost?”_

“Yes,” she said. “A whole pack of them, actually. Geraniums, foxglove, meadowsweet, yellow carnations and orange lilies. He was … thorough.”

“What exactly do all of them mean?” Credence asked, although he had a sinking suspicion.

“Er. Well. We usually call it the Fuck You Bouquet,” the delivery witch said apologetically. “Because you’ve got the geraniums for stupidity, foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness, yellow carnations to let them know they’ve disappointed you, and orange lilies for hatred.”

“Oh,” said Credence. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

The delivery witch was more than a little bit tipsy when she left, but she looked considerably less homicidal, so Credence was inclined to call it a win.

He surveyed the neat rows of flowers covering every available surface. Altogether, they probably cost more than the shop made in a month.

“Right,” he decided, and went to go have hysterics in the back garden where he wouldn’t wake Galahad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring [the Fuck You Bouquet](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/180643494281/flower-shop-au) The language of flowers is HILARIOUS.


	24. Graves Manor, September 1935

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Percival Graves, disgusting snot monster.
> 
> [Cross-posted to tumblr here.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/post/180060062951/blargh-i-have-a-cold-and-for-once-it-hasnt)
> 
> Fun fact: Kleenex as we know it has been around since 1924. Apparently it was intended to remove cold cream, but people being people, they found other uses for it -- primarily as disposable handkerchiefs. I love history. It's hilarious.

_Graves Manor, September 1935_

 

Credence had spent most of his formative years with too little food and too thin clothing, which could be attributed in equal parts to Ma’s cruelty and the lack of funds for anything better. He knew full well how fast illness swept through tenement buildings; Modesty had come to them after every other person in her family died of fever, and she’d had nine siblings, once.

So he couldn’t help but worry whenever the children caught some childish ailment, even though he knew full well most of them could be cured with a dose of Pepper-Up or a trip to see Charlotte at St. Brigid’s. It didn’t matter that Galahad and Olwen and Gawain and Elaine had enough food to eat and sturdy clothing for all manner of weather. He still worried.

He worried about Percival, too, but his worries were more about Percival’s job than about whether or not Percival would fall ill with whatever cold was sweeping through the Woolworth Building.

“I’m fine,” Percival told him, shivering in his pile of blankets. He was very heavily congested, and the words sounded more like _I’b find._ “Leave me alone, I don’t want to get you sick.”

“If I get sick, I get sick,” Credence said, casting a warming charm on Percival. He smoothed Percival’s sweaty, slightly greasy hair away from his forehead so he could press the back of his hand against it and take Percival’s temperature. Still feverish, he thought, worried.

“I’m fine,” Percival said again, correctly interpreting Credence’s expression.

“You are a terrible congested snot monster,” Credence told him, responding the way he would have if he’d been dealing with eight year old Galahad.

Percival snickered. He groped outside of his blankets for a box of tissues and noisily blew his nose, all the better to demonstrate his terrible congested snot monster status with, then drew both his hand and the box back inside his nest of blankets.

“Oh my God, give me that,” said Credence, holding his hand out for the used tissue.

“What? No, you’ll get sick. They’re my germs.”

Credence rolled his eyes and fetched a waste basket. He set it on the floor next to Percival’s side of the bed, and Percival dropped the tissue in it. “You’re behaving like Gally,” he chided.

“Galahad,” Percival corrected. Galahad had recently decided he hated his baby name, and any use of his nickname would be met with furious sulking. “I’m a grown ass man. You don’t need to coddle me.”

“Maybe I want to coddle you,” Credence argued. He put his hands on his hips and glared at Percival in exasperation. “Why are you being difficult about this?”

Percival thought about that for a minute. “I’m sick and it’s making me stupid,” he said eventually. He made a face. “Coddle me, please?”

Credence laughed and kissed his cheek. “I’m going to run you a bath,” he decided. “And I’ll change the sheets while you’re soaking, and after that I’ll wash your hair, if you want. And then, once you’re a nice smelling human again, I am going to cuddle with you until you fall asleep.”

“Ugh,” said Percival. “I hate being too sick to enjoy this,” he groused.

“We can have sex once you’re better,” promised Credence.

“I’d offer to have sex now, but I’m so gross _I_ don’t even want to have sex with me,” Percival said mournfully.

Credence laughed, and went to go run Percival’s bath.

**Author's Note:**

> [I am also on tumblr.](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com) You are more than welcome to come scream about fandom with me there. Driveby shouty comments, headcanons and prompts are also welcome!
> 
> If you'd like to read these in chronological order, [there is also a timeline](https://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com/possibleversetimeline) on my tumblr. ;)


End file.
